Clung

I clung so hard to peace

that I began to abandon my own soul.

I clung to Romans 12:18 like oxygen:

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you,

live at peace with everyone.”

So I shut my mouth and played it sweet,

Made my fire take a backseat.

Smiled through pain I didn’t deserve,

Offered grace I couldn’t preserve.

I called it love when it was fear,

Bent my truth to keep you near.

Whispered prayers through lips gone numb,

Trying to heal what you’d become.

But peace should never steal your flame,

Or make you shoulder all the blame.

If silence costs your voice to keep,

It’s not peace—it’s just too steep.

I stayed too long in rooms gone cold,

Trading truth for tales I told.

Carried weight that wasn’t mine,

Just to make the chaos fine.

God never said to lose my light

Just to keep the wrong things right.

He didn’t ask for sacrifice

That made my soul the binding price.

Now I walk with sacred rage,

A quiet fire, a turning page.

I speak in love but stand in spine,

No longer crossing my own line.

I bless and guard—yes, both can be—

Compassion still, but fierce and free.

You call it cold; I call it healed.

I call it knowing what is real.

So if my peace disturbs your game,

If calm and power aren’t the same,

Then step aside—I’m not your cage.

I’ve set my soul on center stage.

I don’t keep peace at any cost,

Especially when I’m the loss.

Now I live what I’ve become—

Not just quiet, but hard-won.