Burn It All Down Poem by Savva Emanon

They call it madness,
this hunger for fire,
this willingness to strike the match
against your own name.

But the spark doesn't return politely.
It doesn't knock.
It doesn't ask permission from the past.
It demands a pyre.

So burn it.
Burn the tidy lies, the laminated identities,
the trophies that rusted into excuses.
Burn the version of you
that learned to survive instead of live.
Burn the scripts you memorised to be loved.
Burn the applause that kept you small.

This isn't destruction.
This is clarity with teeth.

You don't rebuild by carrying ashes in your pockets.
You don't begin again by bargaining with ghosts.
You kneel.
You let decades loosen their grip.
You watch pride curl into smoke.
You release the muscle memory of being who you were told to be.

Few choose this.
Fewer endure the silence after the collapse,
that holy, terrifying pause
where nothing defines you
and everything is possible.

It's simple.
Not easy, never easy, but clean.

In the inferno, pain sharpens,
then softens.
It turns into warmth.
A low hum in the bones.
You sit inside it,
skin new, breath honest,
no future rehearsed.

And then,
without warning,
the Idea arrives.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just undeniable.

A pulse.
A direction.
A truth that doesn't require proof.

You stand, unrecognisable,
unburdened,
dangerously alive.

This is the secret they don't sell you:
you can restart whenever you have the nerve
to lose everything that isn't real.

Beauty doesn't bloom from preservation.
It rises from scorched ground,
from the courage to say,
This ends now.