About LOLA
Some people write for applause.
I write to breathe.
To remember.
To forgive.
To scream in silence and still be heard.
Because when the world tried to break me open, poetry became the glue between my broken bones and my becoming.
This isn’t just writing—it’s resurrection.
🖤 The First Poem Wasn’t Pretty—But It Saved Me
It wasn’t deep.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t wrapped in metaphors or dipped in literary technique.
It was raw.
Ugly, even.
Written between sobs and survival instincts.
There was no audience, no editor, no applause—just me and the storm I was trying to outlive.
And that crumpled piece of paper? It became my lifeline.
I didn’t write it to be heard.
I wrote it so I wouldn’t disappear.
That first poem was a bloodletting.
A quiet kind of courage that came from not knowing what else to do with the ache.
I didn’t have the language for therapy, but I had ink.
I didn’t know healing yet, but I knew how to bleed on the page.
And in that moment—tucked into a corner of pain that felt too big for my body—that poem held me.
It didn’t fix me.
But it witnessed me.
And sometimes that’s the first real miracle:
To feel seen by something—even if it’s just your own words.
That poem didn’t win awards.
But it won back my breath.
And that breath became the first step out of whatever was trying to swallow me whole.
So no—it wasn’t pretty.
But it was mine.
And it saved me.
🖤 The Page Became My Prayer Mat
I didn’t grow up with a therapist on speed dial.
But I had journals. I had spiral-bound confessions. I had ballpoint scripture.
And baby, I wrote like my soul was on the altar.
Because it was.
Before I knew how to name my trauma, I named it “poem.”
Before I could articulate anxiety, I called it a storm and described the thunder in my chest.
Before I ever sat on a couch and unpacked my childhood, I unpacked it on college-ruled pages in the dark.
The page didn’t judge.
It didn’t rush me.
It didn’t flinch at my contradictions.
It just held me.
There were days I didn’t know how to pray in the traditional sense.
Couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t bow my head.
But I could pick up a pen.
And each line became a form of worship.
Each pause, a meditation.
Each poem, a plea to be seen, to be saved, to be something more than what hurt me.
Writing wasn’t just art—it was intercession.
My pen became holy.
My pain became sacred.
And my voice?
My voice became a ritual of return. A coming home to the parts of me I’d abandoned just to make it through.
I didn’t always feel strong—but I kept showing up to the page.
And somehow, the page showed up for me too.
I didn’t just write poems. I wrote my way back to God.
Back to self.
Back to stillness.
Back to breath.
That’s the thing about poetry in the key of survival—you don’t write it to be heard. You write it to stay alive.
🖤 Every Wound Got a Verse, And Every Verse Became a Victory
Every cut, every crack, every bruise that tried to rewrite my worth—
I gave it a verse.
Because if I had to carry the pain, then I was damn sure gonna make it sing.
That breakup that almost broke me?
It got three stanzas and a plot twist.
The betrayal that silenced me?
I turned that into a metaphor so sharp it could slice through shame.
I didn’t just write about what hurt—I wrote through it.
And with every word, I pulled myself a little further from the wreckage.
Line by line.
Wound by wound.
I stitched together a self that wasn’t scared to speak anymore.
Because poetry gave me what silence never could:
Control.
Clarity.
Closure I didn’t have to beg anyone else for.
I took my grief and laced it with imagery.
Took my rage and poured it into rhythm.
Took my doubt and baptized it in verse until it came out sounding like truth.
And over time—something shifted.
What used to make me cry, now made me write.
What used to feel like endings, now felt like refrains.
I wasn’t just a victim of my story anymore—I was the author.
Every poem was proof that I was still here.
Still fighting.
Still forming beauty out of what tried to break me.
And the more I wrote, the more I reclaimed.
Not just power, but perspective.
Not just survival, but soul.
That’s the thing about turning wounds into words:
The scars don’t vanish—but they shine different.
They become maps.
They become ministry.
They become victory.
🖤 Healing Ain’t Always Soft—Sometimes It’s Sharp
They sell us healing like it’s a spa day.
Like it smells like lavender and sounds like lo-fi beats.
Like it’s always candles and calm voices,
and never what it really is:
Work.
Wreckage.
Wounds you gotta look at twice before you admit they’re yours.
Healing, for me, wasn’t some sweet, slow exhale.
It was a scream I had to unbury.
It was grief in the shape of poems I almost didn’t finish.
It was realizing I had to stop blaming the people who hurt me
just long enough to take back my damn power.
Healing is holy—but it’s also hell.
It means cutting ties you prayed would mend.
It means holding yourself accountable without turning that into self-hate.
It means forgiving people who’ll never say sorry—and sometimes, forgiving yourself for believing them over your own spirit.
Some days it looks like prayer.
Other days, it looks like rage.
Some days you’re writing affirmations.
Other days, you’re writing revenge letters you’ll never send.
But here's the thing—
Even when it’s messy, it’s medicine.
Every time I picked up the pen and told the truth—especially when it hurt—I gave myself a little more room to breathe.
Every sharp line, every brutal verse, every raw confession became a scalpel that cut out shame, guilt, and the need to be palatable.
I stopped writing to be soft.
I started writing to be real.
Because healing isn’t about being easy to love.
It’s about learning to love yourself—even with the bruises still blooming.
And that kind of healing?
It don’t come in pretty packaging.
But it damn sure comes with power.
🖤 Final Reflection & Journal Prompt:
Poetry in the Key of Survival
You made it here.
Through the ache, through the ink, through the pages soaked in silence and sound.
That’s no small thing.
That’s a resurrection.
This isn’t just about writing—it’s about witnessing yourself without flinching.
You don't need to be perfect to be powerful.
You don’t need to be published to be preserved.
Your healing doesn’t have to rhyme—it just has to be real.
✨ Journal Prompt:
What have you survived that deserves a poem?
What truth have you been swallowing that your pen is finally ready to set free?
Title the page: “I Survived, and Here’s the Poem to Prove It.”
Don’t edit. Don’t apologize. Just write.
Add comment
Comments