Hope Is Resistance by Britt Wolfe

Hope is not fragile, and it is not polite. It does not sit patiently, waiting for permission. Hope is a fist through the silence, a spark in the tinder, a refusal to bow when bowing would be easier. It is resistance—not in theory, but in practice. Because to keep believing in better when the world insists on worse is the most radical thing we can do.

These are poems written from that place—the marrow-deep conviction that words matter. They are not decorative. They are not ornamental. They are a blade sharp enough to cut through the theatre of cruelty and a balm for those who still dare to dream. If you came here for neutrality, you will not find it. (You may, however, find your spine straightening. Side effects vary.)

So read on, if you must. Rage with me, laugh bitterly with me, roll your eyes with me at the absurdity of tyrants terrified of library cards. Here, in this corner of my work, hope and resistance sit together at the table, refusing to leave quietly. And if that makes anyone uncomfortable—good. It was never meant to be comfortable