I grew up holding keys not mine,
open doors… but I stayed inside.
Tired hands, a childhood gone,
playing mother before I was one.
Plates not mine, names that weigh,
my voice silent while others stayed.
I was the shadow, I was the hands,
doing all they wouldn’t stand.
Now that I let go… they pull me back,
say I’ve changed, say I lack.
But no…
it wasn’t love, it was a cage,
silent nights, a borrowed age.
It wasn’t home, it was a role,
I was never in control.
And if I leave…
they say someone changed me,
but I’m just finally free.
Late, broken… but still me.
They blame the wind that touches my skin,
blame the world I’m walking in.
But the cage was always there,
I just learned to see it clear.
I don’t want to die…
I just don’t want to live like this,
tied to a life I didn’t pick.
If I fade into the night,
it’s not surrender… it’s escape.
No…
it wasn’t love, it was a cage,
my whole life trapped on a page.
Even if it breaks me apart,
I choose the world… I choose my heart.
And if they look… I won’t be there,
the one who stayed… disappeared.
@newgirldark
-
Autor:
NewGirlDark (Seudónimo) (
Offline) - Publicado: 4 de abril de 2026 a las 14:52
- Comentario del autor sobre el poema: This piece isn’t about one moment… it’s about years of silence, roles I never chose, and a life that felt borrowed. Some people call it change when you finally speak, but sometimes it’s just awakening. Not every home feels like a home. Not every love feels like love. This is not a goodbye… it’s the beginning of becoming someone I was never allowed to be.
- Categoría: Gótico
- Lecturas: 11
- Usuarios favoritos de este poema: Mauro Enrique Lopez Z., Éusoj Nidlaj, Salvador Santoyo Sánchez, LOURDES TARRATS
- En colecciones: Poems.
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Comentarios2
I'm a dark poet, and I sail in the shadows, I don't want light, Let me sleep!
Greetings poet
My dear new friend,
Your poem carries a quiet kind of courage—the kind that doesn’t shout, but trembles and still speaks. You’ve put into words what so many live through in silence: a childhood taken too early, a love that was never love, a life shaped by expectations you never chose.
There is so much strength in the way you name the cage.
Not with anger, not with bitterness, but with honesty.
That honesty is its own kind of freedom.
The way you describe holding keys that weren’t yours, opening doors for others while staying locked inside yourself… it’s heartbreaking, and yet it shows how deeply you’ve always cared, even when no one cared for you in return.
And when you say “I don’t want to die… I just don’t want to live like this,”
I hear not despair, but a longing for a life that finally belongs to you.
A life chosen, not assigned.
A life where your voice isn’t the one that disappears.
You deserve that life.
You deserve gentleness.
You deserve a world where freedom isn’t something you have to apologize for.
Leaving the cage—seeing it for what it was—is not betrayal.
It’s awakening.
And choosing your heart, even late, even broken, is not weakness.
It’s the beginning of becoming whole.
I’m here, reading you with respect, with tenderness, and with the certainty that your truth matters.
You are not fading.
You are emerging.
Keep on going, girlfriend, you deserve it.
Many hugs and tender care, because:
POETS WE ARE, INDEED.
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