The Fire Still Burns

I Am Not Done

I am not done.

Not fading.

Not folding.

Not waiting for permission to speak.

They told us:sit down.

Age quietly. Get comfortable.

But comfort’s a lie

a poison they sell to keep us soft.

I’ve worked with danger.

Bled for things no one cheered.

Carried weight that wasn’t mine.

And I still rise.

Back straight.

Hands burning with fire.

Voice, mine.

And I’m screaming it out loud.

This is for the counted out.

The survivors of shit too heavy for Instagram quotes.

For the ones who wear every wrinkle

like a dam battle ribbon.

You’re not done.

And neither am I.

Not by a fucking mile.

If this movement’s real,

if age is just a number,

then quit pretending we’re finished.

Show the world what truth looks like

when it fucking roars.

Either way, I’m standing.

I’ve got more flames

to set the dark on fire.

Some fires don’t die.

This one’s burning still.