my thighs

bled,

underpants

red

from the constant

chafing 

from the sweat

and the battle,

unceasing,

never abating.

I stared

at this devil,

in his,

blood-stained scrubs

aloof to the 

chaos,

that rained down,

upon us,

like a flock 

of burned

black

doves.

something,

in me,

died,

that day,

as I looked

into

those,

icy blue,

cold gray 

eyes…

and

it needed 

to die

because I needed 

to see

into the shadows

where the

monster lives

and not everyone 

is free.

cause,

before this day

in the middle

of May,

I believed in

something

that was good,

but not true,

the world

that I wanted,

not the world,

that was…

wisdom was gained

and innocence was lost 

This poem grew from many voices — raw feelings of fear, loss, and hope all tangled together.

Each word reflects real emotions shared by those who’ve faced darkness but still hold onto defiance, hope, and even excitement.

The twisted tree stands for resilience — bent by storms but rooted deep in hidden streams of strength.

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no rider
would dare
to ascend,
for fear,
they would be thrown,
cast down,
for attempting to ride
a king…

do not let,
yourself be ridden,
do not succumb
to the bridle,
or the whip,
nor the shit,
or be saddled with,
another’s burden…

you were born
to run free,
tr…

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I asked a simple question:

What gives you hope in 2025?

This is what came back — not as data, but as a poem.

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