Grief doesn’t live in anniversaries — it lives in the ambush. In the song that plays when you least expect it, in the street you forgot you once walked together, in the silence where a conversation should still exist. The Song Still Gets Me is about that kind of grief — the kind that doesn’t end, it just waits. It’s a reflection on the way absence lingers in ordinary moments, how memory has perfect timing, and how love, even when interrupted by death, keeps playing long after the person is gone.💚

Grief has a way of stopping time — of turning a life, a love, a presence into a punctuation mark. The End of the Sentenceis a quiet meditation on what happens after that full stop: the blank pages that follow, the half-formed words we keep trying to write, the ache that never really learns the language of absence. It’s a poem about the permanence of love and the unfinishedness of loss — how even years later, the heart still searches for a way to finish the sentence, even when it knows it never will.💚

This poem came from a realisation I’ve carried for most of my life—that people respond to pain in one of two ways. Some expel it, spreading their hurt as if that’s the only way to survive it. Others, though, absorb it. They take in the chaos, the cruelty, the unprocessed grief of others, and somehow keep the world from tipping further into darkness. The Absorption Method is about what it means to be one of those people—the quiet alchemists who turn pain into peace, even at great personal cost. It’s about the unseen toll of holding it all, and the reluctant grace in choosing not to pass it on.💚

Some memories settle into us like half-forgotten songs—soft at first, then suddenly everywhere, colouring the air around us with echoes of who we once were and the people we once loved. The Ghosts We Carry Home explores that delicate ache: the way certain loves never fully leave, choosing instead to linger in the quiet corners of our lives like familiar melodies waiting to be replayed. It’s a reflection on how music, stories, and emotion weave themselves through time, haunting us with their sweetness long after the moment has passed. This poem is for anyone who has ever been ambushed by a lyric, a place, or a December night—and found themselves back in the arms of a memory that still glows. 💚

Some losses don’t come with funerals. Some goodbyes happen while the person is still alive — too broken, too lost, or too unwilling to meet you where life requires. I’m Sorry You Couldn’t Be Here is a grief song for the living, for the people who couldn’t stay long enough to see what they were part of. It’s about mourning the future that never happened, the laughter they never earned, the softness they couldn’t hold. This poem is both an elegy and an act of release — a way of saying you were loved, but I’m still here, and that has to be enough.💚

We’re told that life is a race toward completion — that success, peace, and happiness wait for us at some invisible finish line. But what if we were never meant to arrive? Running Away From Finish Lines is about the freedom of living unfinished, the beauty of motion for its own sake. It’s a love letter to evolution — to staying curious, hungry, open, and alive. This poem celebrates the art of becoming without end, and the quiet rebellion of those who refuse to mistake arrival for fulfilment.💚

We spend so much of our lives chasing mastery—as though arrival were the point. But real living happens in the beginnings, in the awkward first tries, in the willingness to keep showing up to what we don’t yet understand. The Life Long Beginner is a celebration of curiosity and imperfection, a love letter to the endless process of becoming. It’s about choosing wonder over certainty, growth over comfort, and understanding that starting again isn’t a setback—it’s how we stay alive to ourselves and to the world.💚

There’s a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from always being the one who holds everything together — from mistaking control for safety, order for peace. Type A+ (Virgo As Fuck) is both a confession and a comedy: a love letter to the part of us that colour-codes chaos and a lament for the part that no longer remembers how to rest. It’s about the quiet tyranny of competence, the anxiety beneath achievement, and the impossible hope that maybe, one day, we’ll learn how to stop without unravelling.💚

We spend our lives chasing permanence, but maybe the beauty of being human lies in our impermanence — in the fragile, dazzling brevity of it all. We Are Moments In Time is a love letter to the fleeting nature of existence, and to the constellation of lives that make ours luminous. It’s about the tiny miracles that unfold between beginnings and endings — how every laugh, every touch, every act of kindness becomes its own eternity in the hearts it reaches. We are small against the vastness of the universe, but within the orbit of one another’s lives, we are infinite.💚

Depression isn’t always a collapse—it’s often a battle waged in silence, an unending watch against something that never sleeps. When the Sentinel Sleeps is a lament for the warriors who stand guard over their own minds, fighting an enemy that wears their voice and knows their weakness. It’s about the discipline of choosing to stay, again and again, even when the choice feels unbearable. This poem honours the unseen heroism of endurance—the quiet, holy act of waking up to face the dark one more time, even knowing it will come again.💚

We spend so much of life trying to dodge impact—believing that peace lives in the avoidance of pain. But true peace isn’t found in escape; it’s found in endurance. Learning To Take The Punch is about that sacred, brutal transformation—how strength isn’t the absence of hurt, but the willingness to meet it without losing yourself. It’s a poem about staying when every instinct tells you to run, about choosing presence over protection, and discovering that the blows don’t define you—your breath after them does.💚

There’s a strange, sacred kind of exhaustion that comes from being known for your strength. People call it resilience like it’s a crown, but it’s really a scar — proof that you’ve survived what should have undone you. I Am an Extraordinary Machine is both a declaration and a lament: a hymn for those who bend, rebuild, and rise again, even when they’d give anything to simply rest. It’s about the brilliance of the body and spirit that refuse to break, and the quiet grief of wishing the world would stop asking us to prove it.💚

We’re taught to worship compromise—as though love, friendship, and peace all depend on our ability to meet in the middle. But compromise often asks us to trade our truth for tolerance, to make ourselves smaller in the name of harmony. I Will Never Compromise challenges that mythology. It’s a poem about the quiet rebellion of staying whole—about refusing to dilute your essence just to keep the peace. True connection isn’t found in mutual surrender, but in shared creation: two people standing fully in themselves, building something honest and vast enough to hold them both.💚

There comes a point when you realize people aren’t seeing you — they’re seeing the version of you that makes them comfortable. The accommodating one. The forgiving one. The character who stays within the bounds of their story. I Don’t Owe Them a Character is about the rebellion of refusing that role. It’s a poem for anyone who’s been told they were “too much,” when what they really were was whole. It’s about reclaiming the right to be complicated, inconsistent, human — and about understanding that being misread is sometimes the price of being real.💚

We live in a world that treats the word sorry like a spell—utter it, and all is absolved. But apology without accountability is just performance; it soothes the speaker and leaves the listener bleeding. Your Apology Does Not Make Amends is about that quiet, painful truth: that words can acknowledge a wound, but only action can heal it. Forgiveness is not owed—it’s earned through change, through effort, through the humility of showing up differently. This poem speaks to the moment we stop confusing guilt for growth and begin demanding evidence instead of promises.💚

There’s a peculiar grief that comes from realizing someone never loved you—they loved the version of you that made them comfortable. The agreeable one. The one who said yes instead of asking why. You Only Love My Yes is about that moment of clarity that feels like heartbreak and rebirth at once—the recognition that some kinds of love are just mirrors, reflecting back obedience instead of intimacy. It’s about how saying no—finally, painfully—can sound like loss, but is really the first honest thing you’ve said in years.💚

There is a certain kind of courage that never looks like courage at all. It isn’t loud or visible or triumphant. It’s the quiet decision to turn toward what hurts instead of away from it—to enter the shadowed places of the self and sit beside the sorrow we spend our lives avoiding. Exploring the Caves of Sorrow is an elegy for that descent: the slow, necessary unearthing of our unhappiness. It’s about the radical act of feeling what we’re taught to repress, about learning that sadness is not a symptom of failure but evidence of depth. To confront sorrow is to confront our own aliveness—to recognize that grief, longing, and despair are not opposites of joy, but its proof.💚

Some people choose cruelty like it's a second skin. No matter how many chances they’re given to show kindness, they twist every opportunity into something sharp. You Are So Mean traces the slow erosion of feeling that happens when you’re hurt over and over again by someone who refuses to change. It begins in pain, moves through disappointment, frustration, and fury—and ends not in forgiveness, but in freedom. Because eventually, you stop expecting softness. Eventually, you stop letting it touch you. This poem is for anyone who has ever outgrown the grip of someone else's cruelty—and found peace in letting go.💚

Every family leaves something behind. Some inherit silver, others silence. Some receive heirlooms, others harm. This poem imagines the legacy of cruelty as a legal document — a sterile record of emotional debt, cataloguing the damage passed from one generation to the next. It treats pain as property, remorse as liability, and survival as the only form of payment left. Beneath its procedural language lies a simple truth: when love fails its duty, what remains is not inheritance, but cleanup.💚

Some people are born into gardens that never wanted them to grow. Places where love is conditional, success is an affront, and every attempt to rise is met with the slow, deliberate tightening of roots determined to keep you buried. This poem is about what it means to come from that kind of soil—to fight your way toward light while the very ground beneath you tries to pull you back under. It’s about the violence of outgrowing your origins, the grief of leaving them behind, and the sacred act of blooming anyway.💚