This poem isn’t about a person so much as a pattern — the way unhealed pain can twist itself into pursuit, entitlement, and harm. The Helpless Thing That Just Wants Love was written to explore how longing, when left unattended, can become consuming, and how understanding someone’s suffering does not require sacrificing oneself to it. This poem holds space for compassion without access, empathy without self-erasure, and the difficult truth that some pain must be witnessed from a distance in order for safety to remain intact.

This poem is a declaration. Quarencia names the place of inner ground I will no longer surrender — the space where my body, boundaries, and truth align without negotiation. In bullfighting, a bull’s querencia is the place where it regains its strength and clarity, not through aggression, but through rootedness. This poem takes that idea inward. It is about claiming safety as a right, not a reward; about power that comes from staying rather than reacting; about the moment you stop leaving yourself in order to survive. Quarencia is not a warning or a threat — it is a statement of permanence.

This poem uses the story of the Buddha’s awakening as a mirror rather than a destination. Sitting Under the Bodhi Treeisn’t about reverence or doctrine — it’s about the quiet, difficult choice to stay present with what arises instead of fleeing from it. Writing it was a way of recognising my own moments of awakening, not as flashes of transcendence, but as acts of steadiness: sitting with fear, desire, doubt, and pain long enough to see that none of them are who I am. This poem is about healing that happens without spectacle — the kind that begins when we stop running and learn how to remain.

This poem comes from practising something that goes against nearly every instinct I have: not fixing, not solving, not turning discomfort into action. What Do I Do? Nothing. is about sitting with what arises instead of fleeing from it — letting sensations move through without immediately responding, improving, or narrating. Writing this was an exercise in restraint and trust, a reminder that presence doesn’t always require intervention, and that sometimes the most healing response is simply staying where you are and allowing the moment to be what it is.

This poem was written alongside my reading of Radical Acceptance, and it reflects something deceptively simple and profoundly difficult: the willingness to look at what still hurts without trying to fix it, explain it, or outrun it. The Bandaged Place isn’t about reopening old wounds, but about turning toward them with steadiness and care — allowing pain to exist without judgment or urgency. Writing it was an act of staying present with what I’ve learned to keep covered, and of practising acceptance not as resignation, but as a quiet form of self-loyalty.

This poem comes from a place of grounding rather than escape. It isn’t an argument against memory or hope, but a return to the body — to the only place where healing can actually happen. When trauma pulls us backward and fear pulls us forward, the present can feel easy to abandon. Writing this was an act of coming back: to breath, to weight, to the quiet truth that now is often far safer than the stories my nervous system is trying to tell me. There Is Only This is a reminder to myself that repair doesn’t happen in the past or the future — it happens here, in the moment that is actually alive.

This poem honours a love that enters not because something is missing, but because something complete makes room. A Beautiful Violation Of My Solitude reflects on the quiet astonishment of allowing another person into a life built on competence, independence, and chosen isolation. It is not a surrender of self, but an expansion—an acknowledgment that love can arrive without erasing what came before, and that the most meaningful disruptions are the ones that leave us more fully ourselves.

This poem uses the physical logic of traffic—direction, instinct, and muscle memory—to explore how safety learned in one place can become vulnerability in another. Moving between Canada and Australia, it traces the disorientation that occurs when love rewires the body’s expectations, and the quiet devastation of returning to an environment that still punishes openness. At its core, the poem reflects on how learning to let one’s guard down is not reversible, and how forgetting where danger comes from can be the most painful consequence of finally being loved.

This poem speaks to those who have learned to absorb harm effortlessly while treating kindness as suspect. Let the good in explores the imbalance many survivors carry—how negativity is granted immediate access while praise is questioned, deflected, or dismissed—and reframes acceptance as a rational, evidence-based choice rather than blind optimism. Grounded in community, chosen family, and lived proof, the poem offers a quiet argument for re-learning trust: not by denying pain, but by finally allowing goodness to occupy the space it has already earned.

This poem uses the language of consent and contract to describe a love that arrives unexpectedly and alters the body, the nervous system, and the shape of daily life. I Didn’t Consent To This is not a rejection of love, but an expression of awe at its quiet power—how safety, confidence, and belonging can enter without warning and become essential. What begins as surprise becomes devotion, honouring a partnership that transforms not through force, but through presence.

This poem names a form of harm that hides behind legitimacy: the strategic misuse of institutions to pursue, isolate, and exhaust a person without ever appearing overtly violent. Pursuit Through Systems traces how authority is leveraged, recycled, and redeployed when one channel fails—how allegations migrate, narratives are laundered, and procedure becomes a weapon. It is not about a single accusation or forum, but about the pattern itself: a sustained campaign that relies on repetition, attrition, and plausible deniability until the target becomes easier to remove than the truth they carry.

This poem examines how harm is neutralized not through denial, but through procedure. It traces the way institutions convert unresolved wrongdoing into administrative stability—how facts are managed, witnesses are displaced, and memory is reframed as liability. Due Process is not about justice failing loudly, but about how systems succeed quietly: by exhausting the person who remembers until continuity is restored and accountability becomes unnecessary.

This poem examines credibility laundering not as a metaphor, but as a mechanism: a slow, institutional process by which harm is neutralized, memory is destabilized, and truth becomes professionally inconvenient. Rather than focusing on a single individual, it traces how reputations are cleaned through proximity to prestige, how ethical authority is purchased and maintained, and how those who refuse silence are quietly displaced. What follows is not an accusation shouted, but a system documented—one that survives by making exposure feel transgressive and remembrance feel impolite.

This poem approaches childhood abuse through the language of architecture and endurance rather than confession. It uses the haunted house as a misdirection—an image people recognize and feel comfortable naming—before revealing that the true site of haunting is the survivor themselves. Set against the vast indifference of the prairies, it examines how terror becomes structural, how survival is mistaken for wholeness, and how what “endures” often does so by relocating inward. This is not a story about what happened, but about what remains functional long after the visible damage has been erased.

This poem explores dynamics that can emerge inside families shaped by control, denial, and inherited silence. Written in the third person, it draws on emotional realities many people recognize but struggle to name. It is not a literal account of events or specific individuals. Instead, it is an examination of how systems can distort memory, loyalty, and identity over time. It is meant to be challenging. It is meant to open space for reflection.

This poem understands love not as intensity or performance, but as the invisible structure that allows a life to stand. The Substrate of My Heart explores partnership as infrastructure—quiet, load-bearing, and enduring—where safety replaces vigilance and continuity replaces effort. It is a meditation on mature love as something that disappears into function, becoming the steady ground from which work, rest, grief, and growth are all able to unfold without fear of collapse.

This poem reflects on the quiet wisdom that emerges with time—the understanding that what once felt like loss can later reveal itself as redirection. Looking at the Past to Trust the Future explores how our early certainties are shaped by limited experience, and how the futures we once mourned might have constrained the lives we were meant to grow into. It is an offering of trust grounded not in optimism, but in evidence: the recognition that what did not work often made room for deeper love, wider worlds, and versions of ourselves that required distance, movement, and better care to exist at all.