About SBO POETRY,

Welcome to my blog, where I share my thoughts and feelings through poetry. I hope my words inspire you and help you express your own emotions.

 

 

Much of my writing is inspired by real experiences—bullying, trauma, survival—but also by the quiet strength that hides in small moments. I write honestly, sometimes painfully, because I believe poetry can open hearts, break silence, and make others feel seen.

 

If my words make you pause, reflect, or feel less alone—then my poetry has done its job.

When Home Wasn’t Safe Either

 

The next few poems are about my bullying past. The bullying didn’t stop at the school gates,  it followed me home, quiet but heavy, sitting in my chest like something I couldn’t put down. Home always was my safe place, but even at home, where I should’ve felt safe, the heaviness of what I went through stayed with me,  like I was carrying it in silence.

I hope you, as the reader, feels that every line carries a part of what I’ve lived.

These words have lived out in the open before, but too often, they were ignored. Painful truths left unread. Thank you for being the one who chooses to truly listen.

 

!Trigger Warning!:

This story/poem contains themes of bullying, mental health struggles, and suicidal thoughts. If you have experienced similar situations and feel that reading this might be distressing, please take care of yourself and consider reading when you feel ready. Remember, you are not alone, and help is always available.

"Same hallways, Small streets"


I was twelve

and the world had already learned

how to be cruel in whispers

and loud in laughter

that wasn’t meant to include me.

 

They sat beside me in class

but looked through me like I was air.

Their words were sharp,

thrown like stones

in the middle of ordinary days.

 

I walked the same halls as them,

but it always felt like a battlefield.

And when the school bell rang,

I was riding with my bicycle the same streets too —

home was no escape,

just a quieter place to feel the weight.

 

They weren’t strangers;

they lived in the same village,

wore familiar faces

that I’d known since playground days.

Somehow, that made it worse —

like being betrayed

by your own shadow.

 

But I survived.

 

Not all wounds bleed —

some just echo.

And even now, when silence falls,

I still hear the echoes.

But I also hear my own voice rising,

clearer than theirs ever was.

 

I write because they tried to erase me.

I speak because they wanted me silent.

And I live —

fully, loudly —

because they couldn’t take that from me.



-SBO  Shännah Bianca

 

"Twelve and Terrified"



I was the quiet girl,

the one who sat at the edge of the noise,

folded into silence like it was armor.

I never asked for attention,

and still, he found me.

 

He said he hated me —

but never gave a reason.

As if my softness was a threat,

as if existing quietly

was enough to make someone cruel.

 

He sent me a picture

not of himself,

but of my face 

It was a picture he took of 

my facebook, it was me and a horse i loved

He edited the picture

twisted , bleeding.

He put knives in the picture,

where the blood drop from my face

And in red letters,

he wrote a death sentence

like it was a joke.

 

After school,

when the bell rang

and the world poured out of the classrooms,

he followed me.

Wheels spinning fast behind me,

rage riding on his handlebars.

Then:

the shove.

The crash.

The pavement.

My skin remembering what fear feels like

when it comes with force.

 

I was twelve.

I should’ve been dreaming about anything else —

not survival.

 

But I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still writing.

 

He wanted me quiet.

But I turned my silence into a voice

sharp enough to be heard.

And now, I speak

for every quiet girl

who was ever told to disappear.

 

SBO - Shännah Bianca

"Even the Bathroom Wasn't Safe"


They pushed me down the stairs —

laughing.

As if my fear made the fall funnier.

As if bruises were part of the game

they played without rules,

without mercy.

 

They followed me, too.

Not just in the halls

but into my fear.

 

Every time I wanted to go,

to just go,

they were there —

outside the bathroom,

whispering, waiting, watching.

 

So I held it in.

I held everything in.

My voice, my breath, my pain —

tight as fists inside me

because I couldn’t risk

being seen,

being followed again,

being cornered

in a place with no exit.

 

Hours passed.

My body froze.

My bladder screamed.

But the fear was louder.

 

How do you explain that?

That needing the bathroom

became a battlefield.

That even needing to be human

felt unsafe.

 

I was just a girl

trying to make it through the day

Trying to survive.

 

"In bathroom stalls, I hid my cries,

With sleeves pulled down to mask the lies.

They couldn’t see the scars they made—

Only the ones I etched with blades"

 

SBO  Shännah Bianca

"When One Turned, They All Followed"



They said I was too skinny,

like my body was a flaw

they were allowed to name out loud.

 

They didn’t see a girl,

they saw something to pick apart —

as if I was made of mistakes

instead of skin and feeling.

 

They made up stories

about who I was,

about things I never said,

about a version of me

they invented to hate.

 

If one girl decided not to like me,

they all followed.

And the boys?

The same.

As if kindness came with a price tag —

and I couldn’t afford it.

 

I became the rumor,

the outsider,

the name they said with smirks

when I walked by.

A quiet girl

carrying the noise of their judgment

in every hallway.

 

I started to wonder

if I really was what they said.

Was I too thin?

Too weird?

Too weird to love?

 

But here’s the truth:

they never saw me.

Not really.

They saw their own fear,

their need to belong,

their weakness dressed as cruelty.

And i?

I survived, through all the hard days

without ever becoming like them.

 

SBO Shännah Bianca

"The Bridge Above The Highway"


I was standing there, 

bike trembling beneath me,

hands cold on the handlebars,

a bridge above the highway

and a silence inside me

too loud to bear.

 

They had broken me

just words,

just stares,

just lies

that clung to my reflection

until I believed them.

 

I wasn’t enough.

Not to them.

Not to me.


SBO  Shännah Bianca

"The Fourth Floor"


Just before the bell rang,

I slipped away from the noise,

climbing higher,

to the edge of the old school —

the fourth floor,

where the windows stretched tall

and the world looked small beneath me.

 

I stood there, alone,

heart pounding in the silent space,

thinking of shattering glass,

of falling through the sky,

of making them see —

see the pain they hid inside my quiet.

 

I wanted them to stop,

to feel the weight

of what they did to me,

to know the cost

of their cruel laughter.

 

But as my hand reached out,

a small voice whispered,

soft but strong:

“Don’t let them win so easily..

Your heart holds love —

more than they ever gave you.

" You are not the one to hurt them back"

I felt that love inside—

a fragile flame burning steady,

reminding me I’m more

than their cruelty,

more than the shadows they cast.

 

Though they treated me badly,

I didn’t want to become the same.

I chose to hold on to that love,

to be the light

where they only saw darkness.

 

And so I stepped back,

broke the silence with my breath,

and held on —

to the hope

that love could still outshine pain.

 

SBO  Shännah Bianca

"The Bridge Above The Water"


Another day,

another bridge —

this time above the water.

Still the same question,

heavy in my chest:

 

Is this the way out?

Would it be quieter down there

than it is in my mind?

 

But just as I leaned

toward the edge of giving up,

a voice,

small but steady,

rose from somewhere deeper than the pain:

 

“If you do this, they win.”

“Even now — you still carry love.”

 

And I thought:

What if they’re hurting, too?

What if no one ever told them

what love looks like

without cruelty?

 

Even now, you want them to feel love—

the kind they clearly never had.”

 

I could have jumped.

But instead, I kept riding.

Tears running down my face.

I kept riding,

not because it was easy —

but because I wasn’t done

fighting for a life

 

SBO  Shännah Bianca

"The Narrow Escape"


Riding home,

the wind brushing past my face,

I spotted a friend—

my sister’s good friend—

a few steps ahead,

his pace quick,

too quick to keep close.


He didn't see me, but 

somehow i felt like i needed to stay

close to him

I felt something bad was about to happen.

 

I wanted safety,

to stay near him,

but he disappeared

around the bend—

into the shadow of the forest path.

 

And there,

blocking the narrow road,

stood one of my bullies—

a wall of menace,

his eyes cold and waiting.

 

He told his friend to watch,

to see if anyone came close,

and then he grabbed me—

tight on my bike—

trapping me in his grip.

"Let me go!" "

"You are hurting me!" I screamed.


A lighter flicked,

a fuse sparked—

it was firework, not just any

firework, not the simple kind, the fun kind, but 

the dangerous illegal kind.

danger wrapped in fire,

hissing and burning

as it flew toward me.

 

I closed my eyes—

heart pounding, breath frozen—

and then, by some miracle,

the bike slipped free.

 

I felt the gentle hands of angels

lifting me back from the edge—

saving me when I could not save myself.

 

I didn’t look back—

just pedaled away,

faster than fear,

faster than pain.

With my eyes closed.

 

The explosion roared behind me—

it was so loud, a thunderous blast

that absolutely could have ended everything.

 

 

But in that fractured moment between life and death,

I escaped—

barely.

 

SBO  Shännah Bianca

 

"They Stood There"

 

I wasn’t always alone.

There were faces beside me—

familiar ones,

the kind that sat with me at lunch,

laughed in passing moments,

shared notes, shared secrets.

 

But when the storm came,

they became shadows.

 

They saw it—

the shoves,

the stares,

the cruel jokes carved into every corner of my day.

They saw me shrinking

into smaller versions of myself,

trying to disappear.

 

But their mouths stayed closed.

Not one word.

Not one hand raised

between me and the ones who broke me.

 

They looked at me

like they were watching a movie

they couldn’t pause

but didn’t want to get involved in.

 

Eyes that noticed,

but never reacted.

Like they saw it—

but also didn’t.

Like I was visible,

but not enough to fight for.

 

That silence was loud.

Louder than the bullying.

Louder than the threats.

It said:

“You’re not worth the risk.”

 

And that hurt—

more than the laughter

or the names

or even the violence.

 

Because betrayal

doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes, it just stands

quietly

on the sidelines.

 

SBO Shännah Bianca

"Since that day"


Since that day—

the one with the fire,

the one with the scream that didn’t leave my throat—

Since then i haven't been the same.

 

A bike once meant freedom,

wind in my hair,

a way home.

But now,

it’s a battlefield

with invisible landmines in every breath.

 

The moment my foot touched the pedal,

my chest caved in.

I couldn’t breathe.

The air turned to smoke,

my hands shook,

and my mind screamed

as if it were happening

all over again.

 

Faces blurred.

Sounds vanished.

The world became static—

and I was frozen

in that same moment,

reliving what I barely survived.

 

No one saw it.

No one knew.

They just always saw a girl on a bike

and never wondered

why her eyes looked like storms

or why her fingers gripped the handlebars

like she was holding onto life itself.

 

Only my mother knew.

She heard the silence

and read the panic

in places no one else looked.

 

I got help—

real help.

Therapy taught me a lot,

Hyperventilation therapy in specific'

 

I sat in rooms with quiet walls,

learning to breathe again,

to ride again—

not the bike,

but my own thoughts.

 

But even now,

every ride holds a shadow,

and sometimes,

that shadow rides with me.

 

" The moment i spoke"

 

— when silence couldn’t protect me anymore

 

First,

I whispered it to my mother,

with eyes full of fear

and a voice barely strong enough to carry the truth.

 

“Please… don’t tell anyone.

If you do,

I’ll never trust you again.”

It wasn’t anger—

just desperation,

a child trying to hold the cracks together

with trembling hands.

 

And she held my silence

like it was a wound

she wasn’t allowed to bandage.

It tore her up inside—

to know her daughter was breaking,

and still be asked to keep it secret.

 

But even silence has its limits.

One evening, just one like all they others

I was crying, this time not alone anymore,

but next to my mom.

She looked at me gently

and said,

“It’s time to do something about this

We can’t carry this alone.

Dad needs to know too.”

 

I was terrified.

Not of my father—

but of his anger,

his protectiveness,

the storm I knew would come

once the truth reached him.

 

When we told him,

his hands curled into fists—

not to strike,

but to hold back

the grief and fury

of a father hearing how the world and school system failed his daughter.

 

He was angry—

righteously,

deeply—

not at me,

never at me,

but at everything that had touched me

with cruelty

while he was kept in the dark.

 

He hadn’t seen it coming.

I’d worn the mask too well—

too many quiet evenings,

When he asked me how school was

i always answered with “School was okay".

spoken through a cracking soul.

 

But when I let it out,

when I finally let them in—

it became the beginning

of something more.

Of truth,

of movement,

of no longer surviving in silence.

 

Because once they knew,

we weren’t quiet anymore.

And I wasn’t alone.

"Still Not Heard"


We sat there,

my parents on either side of me,

like anchors

holding me steady

in a sea I was tired of drowning in.

 

I had hope,

just a little—

because this time,

I wasn’t alone.

This time, they were with me

to tell the truth I had buried

beneath years of silence.

 

We spoke to the GGD ( The GGD is a government health organization responsible for Youth healthcare including school)

 

to the man who was supposed to listen,

who was supposed to care.

We told him about the bullying,

the threats,

the way school became a battlefield

I walked through with wounds no one saw.

 

I thought I finally had a voice.

 

But he looked past it.

Past me.

Past them.

As if the only thing that mattered

was the empty desk I left behind.

“Why aren’t you in school more often?”

he asked,

as if my broken body

and crumbling mind

weren’t enough of an answer.

 

He didn’t ask about the boy

who told me I should die,

or the stairwell I was pushed down,

or the bridge I almost didn’t walk away from.

 

He just saw my absence—

not the reason for it.

He heard the noise,

but never the meaning.

 

And so,

even with my parents at my side,

even with the truth laid bare,

I still wasn’t heard.

Not really.

 

But I won’t be quiet again.

Not now.

Not after all this.

"My story needs to be heard"

"Finally, someone believed me"

 

 

They used to pull me from class,

quietly,

like I was trouble to be dealt with

behind closed doors.

Not a student in pain,

but a problem to fix.

“Try harder to come to school,” they’d say,

as if I wasn’t trying to survive

just being there.

 

My mom said no more.

“No more dragging her out alone.

If you want to talk,

you talk with us there too.”

 

So this time,

we walked in together—

me,

my mom,

my dad—

into a gray building

where the air felt like judgment.

 

We sat across from the man,

the compulsory education officer,

his face calm,

his hands resting on papers

he hadn’t written.

 

I spoke.

Not loudly—

I still didn’t know how to raise my voice.

But I told the truth.

All of it.

The pain,

the fear,

the reason the classroom had become

a place I couldn’t breathe.

 

And he listened.

 

He looked at me—

not through me.

And then he said,

“I understand why you’re not in school.”

 

And for the first time in so long,

it felt like

someone understood me besides my family

 

I didn’t have to convince him

or defend myself.

I cried because i felt like i finally

got the help i deserved

 

I was just a girl telling her story,

and he chose to hear it.

 

And in that small moment,

something lifted—

like the world had one less shadow.

 

"The Table Where I Vanished"

 

 

We walked in again—

me and my parents—

to a room where the light

felt colder than before.

They were already seated,

the man who once heard me,

and a woman the director of the school

who sometimes saw me in the hallways

But didn't know me,

and despite that somehow decided

she didn’t like me.

 

The director.

 

She smiled without warmth,

like a decision had already been made

before I opened my mouth.

 

Still, I sat.

Still, I spoke.

Hoping the voice I’d barely built

was strong enough

to hold its own.

 

But then his voice turned sharp,

not like last time.

He leaned in—not to listen,

but to lecture.

 

“Maybe you should just try harder to be at school.”

 

“Don’t overreact.

It’s just boys being boys.”

 

And in that moment,

the man who once believed me

disappeared.

His eyes

looked past me now,

like hers always had.

 

They sat on the same side—

not just of the table,

but of the story.

 

I felt myself fade again.

Not because I had no words,

but because they didn’t want them.

 

Two adults,

one judgment.

And a girl in between,

drowning in silence

she didn’t choose.

 

I left that room

smaller than I came in.

Not because I was weak,

but because belief

had been handed to me—

then snatched back

like it was a mistake.

Tears were running down my face,

i didn't have any words on the way home

 

And again,

I wasn’t being heard.

Again,

I was just noise

to be quieted.

"We spoke, but no one heard"


We sat side by side,

a daughter and her parents,

three hearts worn thin

by silence not our own.

 

My voice,

shaky but real,

finally rose in rooms

where pain had lived too long.

 

My mother’s eyes—

full of held-back storms—

spoke every word I couldn’t.

Her hands clenched truth

like it could crack glass.

 

My father,

full of fire and protectiveness,

watched them dismiss

what broke his daughter

day after day.

 

We showed up.

Again.

And again.

 

But it was like shouting

into soundproof walls.

Their faces were made of stone,

their ears turned away,

their answers rehearsed

before we even asked.

 

“She needs to try harder.”

“It’s just a phase.”

“Boys will be boys.”

 

But they never saw

the fear behind my silence,

the weight beneath my eyes,

the empty spaces where joy used to live.

 

They never saw my parents

carrying what I couldn’t.

Fighting for me

in rooms that treated them

like noise,

like shadows,

like something inconvenient.

 

We were three voices

woven together,

rising in truth,

drowning in dismissal.

 

And when we left—

another office,

another cold goodbye—

we looked at each other,

not with defeat,

but with the ache of

not knowing

what else to do.

 

Not because we were weak,

but because

being unheard

takes strength

no one ever sees.

"I Said Sorry, Just For Needing Help"


I stood at her desk,

at the desk of the woman who

does the administration.

You need to talk to her if you

want to go home or whatsoever.

So i stood there,

small and trembling,

with my voice barely holding

the weight of what I felt inside.

“I need to go home,” I said.

“I’m not okay.”

 

But she didn’t look at me

like a person.

Only a disruption.

A bother in the shape of a girl.

 

“Take an aspirin,” she said,

like that could fix

the ache inside my chest,

the fear crawling under my skin.

“And don’t you dare call your mother.

That’s my job.”

 

But my body didn’t listen

to her rules.

It begged me—

quietly, fiercely—

to get out.

 

So I called my mom.

Because that’s what daughters do

when they’re scared.

When the walls start closing in.

When they just want

someone to care.

 

“I’m coming,” she said.

Soft and strong, like always.

 

I went back

to speak the truth again.

“I told my mom—

she needed to know I’m not okay.”

 

That’s when

the storm broke.

 

Her voice, sharp.

Her words, cruel.

She called me stupid.

In front of everyone.

 

People turned to look.

But no one said a word.

 

And me?

I apologized.

For being honest.

For needing care.

For being human.

 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I’m so sorry

that I told my mom.”

 

But I wasn’t sorry.

Not really.

 

I was broken.

And just wanted to go home.

Snap. Send. Shatter

 


Every day was a quiet battle,

fought behind my eyes,

beneath the surface of

“I’m fine.”

 

A picture taken—

not with love, not with care—

just me, standing alone,

eating, trying.

 

Then the phones lit up,

all at once—

that familiar Snapchat ping,

a sound I never forgot.

 

Laughter in the hallways,

but not mine.

Just echoes of words

he wrote like knives:

“She deserves sickness.”

That’s what he said.

 

A girl, soft-spoken,

crossed the divide.

She showed me the post.

Said I should know.

Her kindness was rare—

a single light in the dark.

 

But I was already

slipping under.

Food turned to stone

in my throat.

 

The bathroom became

my shelter and my shame,

a place to finish my meal—

or not.

 

And most days,

I chose hunger,

because pain had stolen

my appetite for everything,

even life.

"A New Room, A New Beginning"

 

I thought about switching schools,

but deep down, I knew—

running away wouldn’t heal the pain.

 

Then they told us the old school

was closing its doors for good,

and we were moved to a newer place,

walls fresh, halls unfamiliar.

 

The faces changed,

old shadows left behind,

and I stepped into a space

that whispered of new chances.

 

I carried the weight

of yesterday’s pain,

but hoped this place

could be a quiet breath—

a place to start again.

 

The past stayed behind those doors,

where I once felt small and lost,

and here, I dared to believe

that maybe, just maybe,

this was the first step

to being free.

"Rising From Shadows"


Things changed —

slowly, quietly,

like dawn breaking after the longest night.

 

My last two years at school,

a different story.

I worked on myself,

therapy sessions weaving strength

into broken pieces.

 

I stepped into new worlds—

modeling, beauty pageants,

being asked to walk the runway of international fashion weeks.

Each step, a victory,

each challenge faced,

a spark lighting the fire inside.

 

And school?

It was still hard.

There were always people who didn’t like me,

but I think I’m growing.

I see why they are this way—

I see the pain behind their eyes.

I feel for them,

my empathy and pure heart

saved me when I felt broken.

 

I chased joy through what once scared me,

learning to wear confidence

like a second skin.

 

Still healing,

still growing,

but no longer hiding in shadows.

I was rising—

not despite my past,

but because of it.

"The Angel In My Last Year"

 

It was exam season,

and while most were focused on results,

I was caught between boxes and new walls,

moving to a house that didn’t yet feel like home.

 

No internet.

No connection.

Just me and a silent screen—

and despite all my effort,

I failed…

by 0.001 point.

 

I had to stay behind.

One more year.

 

A class full of girls—

and you know how girls can be.

Whispers sharper than blades,

smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

Anxiety curled in my chest

like a second heartbeat.

 

It wasn’t my best year.

I felt alone and trapped in my head.

I never been heard. My story never been heard..

 

But then…

she appeared.

 

A new face in administration,

gentle eyes,

a voice that didn’t rush,

that didn’t doubt.

 

She saw me.

Heard me.

Welcomed me in the quiet

when no one else ever had.

 

I could always come to her.

She gave me space to breathe,

to be fragile,

to be human.


And though it was my last year,

she made it feel possible—

like hope didn’t have to be loud to be real.

 

She was the angel

that showed up right on time.

 

 

"Permission To Breathe"

 

Math class again,

The teacher,

he wasn’t the kind to ask if you were okay.

Only the kind to demand you pretend to be.

 

But I wasn’t okay.

Not that day.

Not inside my chest

where breath tangled and nerves shook.

 

So I asked—

softly, carefully—

to go.

To the place I was allowed to go.

We had a deal,

me and the woman with the gentle voice

at administration.

A pass in my hand,

my safety to get out when i wanted to.

 

I left.

To the toilet first.

To count the seconds

between breaths

until they didn’t feel like drowning.

 

Then, to her—

the only safe corner in that building.

She helped me calm the storm

no one else could see.

 

But by the time I returned,

another class had already begun.

I needed my bag.

I needed to just take it and go.

I asked my teacher i said: " Sorry to disturb your lesson but I forgot my bag"

 

His hands.. —

his hands pushing me hard into the wall.

In front of everyone.

 

“Don’t you ever walk out of my class again.”

 

I said,

“You’re hurting me.”

"I am allowed to go out and you said it was fine!"

 

But no one said a word.

Not him, no one in that room

Only laughter echoed behind me

as I took my bag

and left.

"She will NEVER be silenced again"

 

The year passed like a slow breath

held underwater.

It wasn’t easy—

but I made it.

Not alone.

Because sometimes angels don’t fall from the sky,

they sit behind a desk

and say,

“Come in, you’re safe here.”

 

She made it bearable—

that final year,

when I was almost ready

to give up again.

She didn’t fix the pain,

but she held the door open

so I could walk through it stronger.

 

I passed.

I graduated.

And I cried—

not just for joy,

but for the girl who thought she’d never make it.

 

People say pain makes you stronger.

That’s not true.

What makes you stronger

is choosing to show up

despite the pain.

It’s doing the things you fear the most

even while shaking.

 

Today—

I’m a woman.

Strong. Independent.

Still healing, yes.

But no longer silent.

No longer afraid

that no one will believe me.

 

Because now,

I believe me.

And I speak

for the quiet girl

who was screaming inside.

 

And without my parents,

without my angel,

without God—

I wouldn’t have survived.

 

But I did.

And now,

my story will be heard—

again and again

until the silence is broken

for every quiet girl

who thought she was alone.

Finding your own voice

If you are being bullied, if you’re feeling alone, unheard, or like the pain will never end—please know that your voice matters. Even if others try to silence it, ignore it, or mock it, you are still worthy of being heard.

 

I used to believe that silence protected me. But silence only fed their power. Finding your voice doesn’t mean shouting—it means speaking your truth, even if your voice shakes. Even if you only whisper it to yourself at first. That’s where healing begins.

 

If you are struggling with your mental health, please don’t carry it alone. Talk to someone you trust—a parent, a friend, a teacher, a therapist. And if they don’t listen, don’t give up. Keep speaking until someone does. Because the right people will care. And they do exist.