There’s a particular grief that comes from watching someone you once cared for slip behind their own armour. It’s not about politics, not really — it’s about what happens when curiosity gives way to cruelty, when someone you remember as kind becomes a stranger who confuses arrogance for insight. This poem is about that moment — the quiet breaking point where conversation turns to contempt, and all that’s left is the hollow echo of what could’ve been empathy.💚

There comes a point when explanation becomes cross-examination — when a woman’s intellect is not met, but managed. This poem is for every woman who’s been told she’s too loud, too certain, too articulate for her own good. It treats sexism like a courtroom proceeding: the accusations, the discrediting, the endless attempts to impeach her credibility. But it also delivers the verdict. Because beneath the mock civility and coded insults lies a simple truth — that her refusal to diminish isn’t defiance at all; it’s evidence of evolution, and the men threatened by it are simply unqualified to preside over her anymore.💚

God and Oatmeal lingers on the story of a man who vanished into Alaska’s wilderness in 2018, never to be seen again. It imagines his search for the divine, not in thunder or revelation, but in the small mercy of survival—the steam of oatmeal rising like prayer in the frozen air. This poem is both elegy and meditation, a haunting reflection on how the wilderness can keep its secrets, and how sometimes the closest we come to God is in the quiet provision that sustains us just long enough to disappear into mystery.💚

The Shameless Have No Shame explores the futility of confronting those who thrive on deceit. It speaks to the hollowness of people who cannot be embarrassed, who simply shed one falsehood for another without pause. In its lines, we are reminded that exposure does not undo them, because their power lies not in truth but in audacity. The poem insists that the true act of resistance is not in proving them wrong, but in refusing to let their noise define your silence.💚

This is an Erasure is a meditation on the deliberate act of removing what no longer serves—tearing out the past by its deepest roots, even when it has grown into the bone. It is not simply about loss, but about reclamation: the fierce decision to eradicate what once defined you, and in doing so, to clear space for light, breath, and thriving. This poem inhabits both the violence of erasure and the grace that follows, offering a vision of renewal born not from what remains, but from what has finally been stripped away.💚

There’s a particular kind of evil that hides behind comparison. The kind that says, I wasn’t as bad as them, as if that’s absolution. As if a quieter cruelty is somehow less cruel. This poem is for the one who pretended to be a bystander while their hands left marks. Who rewrote history to dodge the guilt. Who watched, who hurt, who blamed—then claimed innocence. This is not a misunderstanding. It’s a reckoning. You are not who you pretend to be. You are what you did.💚

There is a particular terror in cruelty disguised as care—the kind that wears tenderness like a mask while quietly orchestrating ruin. Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another is a poem that peers into that horror: the calculated breaking of a body under the guise of devotion, the soft smile that hides the sharpest blade. It is less about illness itself than about the sinister ways love can be counterfeited, turned into ritual, and used as a weapon.💚

Jealousy is a thief—of time, of joy, of life itself. While some spend their years watching and measuring themselves against others, the wiser choice is to build, to tend, to grow. This poem is both an elegy for the wasted years envy leaves behind and a hope that one day those blinded by it might turn inward, tending their own gardens and building their own homes, brick by brick.💚

Envy is not inspiration—it is paralysis. To covet another’s life so deeply that you neglect your own is to chain yourself to stillness, to become a watcher rather than a doer. This poem is about the futility of obsession, the emptiness of imitation, and the way jealousy corrodes until nothing remains but a complete failure to launch.💚

There are those who build, and there are those who scavenge. Some create lives rooted in growth, while others paw through the discarded remnants of what they could never grow themselves. This poem is about envy, imitation, and the futility of trying to steal wholeness from another’s cast-offs.💚

There is a particular kind of cruelty in those who spend their lives constructing masks—polished, practised, and paper-thin. They believe performance is protection, that lies repeated often enough will outlast the truth. But masks are fragile things. They crack under the weight of time, under the strain of reality, under the unrelenting patience of those who refuse to be erased. This poem is a reminder: the mask always slips.💚

Motherhood, at its truest, is not about ownership but about care—the quiet, faithful work of tending to what is precious, nurturing what is wild, and protecting what is meant to flourish. This poem is a reflection on that kind of love: stewardship as devotion, guidance, and awe in the face of becoming.💚

Sometimes, silence is mistaken for surrender. If You’d Left Me Out of It was written in the aftermath of being drawn into conflict I neither caused nor sought. It’s about the moment you realise that the people you once trusted have rewritten the truth in ways that force you to find your own voice again. It isn’t about revenge or retaliation—it’s about clarity. About the way pain can turn to precision, and how standing in your truth, even quietly, can be the loudest thing you ever do.💚

When You Tell a Man No is a reckoning with the fragile architecture of male pretence. It captures the precise moment when resistance strips away performance, revealing the hollow core beneath. This poem speaks to the bitter disappointment of discovering that affection was conditional, that tenderness was only ever costume—and yet, it also honours the clarity that emerges in refusal. To say no is not only to protect yourself, but to illuminate who was never worthy of your yes.💚

So many women have been taught to keep quiet—not out of peace, but out of fear, duty, or survival. And when they do, we are too often expected to keep quiet with them. Her Silence Is Not My Shame is a refusal. A reckoning. A reclamation of voice from the long lineage of silence that has protected harm and hidden pain. This poem is for every daughter who has been asked to uphold the myth of composure, for every survivor who was told to keep the family secrets sealed. It’s a declaration that silence may have been their legacy—but it will not be ours.💚

So often, we’re told that trauma makes us stronger. That we should be thankful for the wounds because they gave us resilience. But I Will Not Thank Him for Resilience is a rejection of that lie. This poem is not about rising—it's about crawling, flinching, checking the locks twice, and living in the quiet, daily aftermath of what someone else chose to do. It's about naming the cost, without dressing it up as a gift. Because survival isn’t owed to the person who caused the damage. Survival belongs to the one who refused to disappear. This is for her. This is for all of us.💚

There are moments when the weight of everything threatens to undo me, when the ground feels unsteady and the air feels thin. And yet, no matter how many times I’m pushed down or pulled apart, something inside me insists on rising. This poem is a reminder to myself—that even in the hardest seasons, I have always rallied, and I will continue to do so.💚

Alzheimer’s is not just an illness—it is a fog that steals piece by piece, memory by memory, until the person you love seems unreachable, though you can still feel them there. This poem is for anyone who has sat in that ache, who has held a hand they could not lead back to clarity, who has listened for a voice fading into silence and still refused to let go. The Fog is my attempt to put into words the heartbreak, the helplessness, and the stubborn, enduring love that remains even as everything else slips away.💚

Some poems aren’t written from hope. They’re written from the wreckage that comes after it. You Can Lead a Horse to Water (but You Can’t Make It Heal) is for anyone who’s ever watched someone they love disappear into addiction, self-destruction, or madness—who’s poured themselves out trying to save them, only to realize that love alone cannot rescue someone who doesn’t want to be saved. This is not a redemption story. It is not a lesson. It is the unbearable, unspoken truth: sometimes the descent is louder than your voice. And all you can do is survive their leaving. 💚

All the Time We Bend is a meditation on the quiet devastation of endurance. It reflects on the ways life presses against us—not with sudden breaks, but with the slow, relentless weight that forces us to curve away from who we once were. This poem mourns the cost of resilience, the truth that survival often comes with scars, and that strength, while noble, can carry a sorrow of its own. It is a lament for all the bending we do, and the haunting recognition that being unbroken is not the same as being whole.💚

There are betrayals so profound they cannot be mended, wounds inflicted not upon the body but upon the very pulse of devotion itself. The Strangled Heart is a meditation on that kind of cruelty—the deliberate suffocation of love until what once flowed with abundance is reduced to silence. It is a poem for anyone who has known the unbearable weight of affection turned weapon, who has felt their most sacred bond constricted into nothingness, and who has walked away carrying not just grief, but the echo of love’s final, stolen breath.💚

Childhood doesn’t end with ceremony—it slips away quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day you realize it’s gone. The laughter without consequence, the honesty without hesitation, the joy without measure—replaced by caution, responsibility, and memory. The Last Page of a Childhood is a lament for that inevitable loss, a mournful reflection on the beauty of what once was and the grief of knowing we can never turn back, only revisit the chapters in memory’s fragile light.💚

Murder Cabin in the Woods reflects on the way appearances can deceive, and how even the most ominous settings can become sanctuaries when shared with love. What began as a joke about a sinister-looking cabin unfolded into a retreat of laughter, warmth, and renewal—a reminder that connection has the power to transform fear into comfort, and silence into peace. This poem celebrates the gift of rediscovery, of finding both yourself and your partner more deeply in the stillness of an unexpected haven.💚

What I Wouldn’t Give to Be That Waterfall is a meditation on freedom, surrender, and trust in the journey. Inspired by the sight of a cascading Rocky Mountain waterfall, the poem transforms that vision into longing—the desire to fall with the same fearless abandon, to move with beauty and certainty toward whatever destination awaits. It is both a love letter to nature’s grandeur and a reflection on the courage it takes to let go, trusting that the descent will lead to somewhere vast and luminous.💚

There are moments when the night feels endless—when cruelty, corruption, and malice disguise themselves as power and the world seems bound in shadow. Yet history, nature, and the quiet rhythm of our own hearts remind us of a truth far greater: darkness cannot hold the light back. This poem is a testament to that truth. It is a declaration that goodness endures, that compassion resists, and that righteousness rises, inevitable as the dawn.💚

There are voices that shape the world and voices that save it—and then there are voices that echo uselessly, repeating the same script while everything around them collapses. This poem is for the hollow ones, the placeholders who mistake existence for purpose, who watch their own towns burn while offering nothing but the emptiness of words that never mattered.💚

Alzheimer’s is not a single loss—it is a thousand small funerals before the last one comes. This poem, When My Mother Became the Sea, is my attempt to capture that slow heartbreak, to show through imagery and imagined moments the unbearable weight of losing a parent piece by piece. It is about the silence, the drowning, and the graves we carry inside us long before the world declares them gone.🖤

There is a joy unlike any other in watching children discover the magic of their grandparents—their laughter, their stories, their gentle conspiracies of love. The Wonder of Grandparents is a celebration of that bond: the way it softens time, adds sweetness to the ordinary, and fills a child’s world with wonder. It is both gratitude and delight, honouring the extraordinary gift of having grandparents woven into the fabric of a family.💚

There are forms of power that are not measured in crowns or titles, but in the quiet, steadfast act of care. The Good Fortune of Stewardship is a poem about the sacred privilege of tending to what matters most—the altar of love, of responsibility, of devotion. It is a celebration of service not as burden, but as the brightest gift imaginable, a radiance so near it feels like the sun itself leaning close to bless the earth.💚

Alzheimer’s is a thief that does not break in all at once, but instead steals piece by piece—names, faces, whole chapters of a life once lived. The Vanishing is a poem I wrote while imagining what it might feel like for my mom inside her own fading world, reaching for memories that slip through her hands like ash. It is heavy with grief, laced with fear, and filled with the haunting imagery of what it means to lose yourself one memory at a time.💚