Superstes

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They spoke in thunder meant to shake me,

voices sharpened like broken knives.

In every room they claimed dominion,

naming themselves the architects of lives.  


My childhood carved by distant gunfire,

a world that taught distrust before I learned to speak-

I fled rubble, grief, and hollow silence,

seeking peace where wounds might learn to breathe.  


Yet shadows gathered even here:

a senior voice in polished halls,

harassment cloaked beneath authority,

threats hidden behind a public smile.  


Trauma from my past rose like ghosts,

whispering warnings I longed to quiet,

while my community faced its slow war-

streets drowned in drugs moved by unseen men.  


At home, storms struck without mercy-

a stepfather’s rage, a stepmother’s disdain,

and a lover’s betrayal wrapping frost around my heart,

reminding me I stood alone-yet still unbowed.  


But alone is not defeated;

I gathered shadows into evidence,

watching corruption’s threads pull tight,

becoming a whisper through locked corridors.  


Villains rarely stand still-

files once guarded vanished—stolen,

by hands I trusted, betrayal bloomed,

yet I refused to break-my voice aflame.  


With allies—an honest detective,

a relentless journalist-

we waged a quiet war beneath the surface,

unmasking those with power shielding their crimes.  


Every threat only fueled my resolve,

every betrayal sharpened my fire-

a phoenix rising from scattered ashes,

stitched with courage, forged in pain.  


When truth finally burst into daylight-

crimes exposed, lies undone,

the stolen proof reclaimed and laid bare-

enemies watched kingdoms collapse.  


I stood taller—reborn, unbroken,

no longer victims of war or lies-

we are survivors. Superstes.

The storm they failed to bury, the flame they could not extinguish.  


They called their cruelty “tradition,”

wrapped chains in velvet, called it love.

But domination wears a cracking mask

when truth begins to rise above.  


They said a woman’s power was fragile,

a delicate thing to crush,

not knowing storms find their precision

in silence, not in noise or rush.  


I watched them strut in empty armor,

pretending strength was loudness,

kings of sandcastles built on vanity,

shouting orders to appease a crowd.  


Their laws were written in dark corners,

their morals shifting with demand,

justice bent like molten metal

to suit the power in their hand.  


They whispered rumors like serpents coil,

spread fiction like a flame,

a chorus singing lies in unison,

trying to drown my living name.  


Their gossip crawled through shadows,

seeking cracks beneath my skin-

but I am forged from deeper suffering,

and this is not a war they win.  


Then came the vultures, circling-

hungry for a fresher wound,

carving my truth into spectacle,

selling my sorrow far too soon.  


Figures chasing profit in the spotlight,

claiming virtue as they lie-

turning whispers into currency,

turning pain to merchandise.  


My grief became their merchandise,

my story spun for clicks and views,

they crowned themselves as truth-tellers,

twisting every shred of news.  


A marketplace of hollow voices,

fed on chaos to survive-

but truth is patient, sharp, relentless,

and burns the falsehoods they contrive.  


For every time they tried to break me,

I found a new place I could bend;

every bruise became a scripture,

every scar a loyal friend.  


I learned their rage came from weakness,

their cruelty born of hollow pride,

no fortress built on fear or falsehood

withstands the tide they try to hide.  


Let them rage in fading kingdoms,

let them crown themselves with dust,

when truth is spoken, they will tremble-

their empire built on distrust.  


I rise from ashes they scattered,

gather every shattered part,

stitch my wounds with molten courage,

and write rebellion in my heart.  


They tried to bury me in silence,

but all they did was feed my flame,

walking past their rusted towers,

never bowing to their name.  


And when they whisper of the woman

who would not kneel, would not comply,

I hope they taste the truth like poison:

It was never theirs to classify.  


I am the fire they failed to smother,

the truth they could not twist or bind.

The future they could not silence,

the storm I was destined to find.  


My truth reshaped the city,

my voice rewrote the laws,

and I walk forward-

not conquered, not broken-

reborn in the fire they tried to hide.


"We are survivors. Superstes."

"Truth begins to rise above when domination wears a cracking mask."
"Even in silence, storms find their precision."

"Betrayal blooms where trust had tried to grow."


"The future belongs to those who refuse to be silenced."

"Our scars are loyal friends, our wounds are stories of resilience.
In the face of cruelty, courage is the greatest act of defiance."

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