The Reason I Wrote Poetry

I didn’t start writing poetry because I wanted to be a poet.

I started writing because I needed to survive.

Before poetry, my world felt small. Controlled. Heavy with fear. I was living in a constant state of tension — watching my words, watching my body, watching the air in the room. I didn’t have language for what was happening to me. I only knew I felt trapped.

I was being hurt in ways I couldn’t explain out loud.

So I began writing it down.

At first, the poems weren’t polished. They were scraps. Half-sentences. Angry lines. Questions with no answers. But something shifted the moment the words hit the page.

For the first time, the chaos had a container.

Poetry gave me language.

Language gave me distance.

Distance gave me clarity.

And clarity gave me choice.

When you name something, it loses some of its power over you. What had felt like confusion started to look like control. What had felt like my fault started to look like manipulation. What had felt like love started to look like fear.

Writing didn’t just help me cope.

It helped me see.

And once I could see, I couldn’t unsee.

But the real shift came when the words left the page.

Spoken word changed everything.

Standing up. Breathing in. Letting the truth move through my body instead of hiding inside it. Using my voice in a room where no one could silence me. That was something else entirely.

Writing saved me quietly.

Spoken word brought me back publicly.

To speak the words out loud was to take up space. To feel my voice land in a room and not be shut down. To be heard — not questioned, not dismissed, not corrected — just heard.

That was power.

Eventually, the poems got stronger.

And so did I.

Poetry didn’t just give me expression.

It interrupted abuse.

Spoken word didn’t just give me a platform.

It gave me back my voice.

Now, when I hold space for others — in workshops, on stages, in community rooms — I do it because I know what it means to feel silenced. I know what it means to shrink yourself to survive. And I know what happens when someone realises they are allowed to speak.

There is something radical about being heard without being harmed.

Poetry saved my life — not in a romanticised way — but in a steady, practical one. It helped me leave. It helped me rebuild. It helped me remember who I was before fear.

That’s why I write.

That’s why I speak.

And that’s why I create spaces where other people can do the same.

If you’re carrying words you’ve never been allowed to say, I want you to know this:

Your voice is not the problem. Silence was.

There is room for you here when you’re ready.