Fine: I’ll Drag Myself and My Dreams Out of Here Myself

Written By Britt Wolfe
Fine: I’ll Drag Myself and My Dreams Out of Here Myself poem by Britt Wolfe author

Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe

Fine.

I’ll drag myself and my dreams out of here myself.

No waiting for soft hands.
No standing in doorways growing smaller
while life keeps happening to other people.
No watching the years disappear
like receipts curling at the bottom of a handbag,
proof of things spent
with nothing solid left to hold.

The room is too small now.

Too tight for the stories kicking inside my ribs.
Too airless for the life I have kept folding smaller
so it could fit around everyone else’s expectations.

Enough.

I will grip the ragged hem of my own becoming
with bloodied fingernails
and drag the whole unruly thing forward
if that’s what it takes.

Through doubt.
Through humiliation.
Through exhaustion so deep it settles into the bones.
Through every voice that ever sneered—
Who do you think you are?

I am an author.

Even when the words lodged in my throat.
Even when fear made me whisper it instead of say it.
Even when I spent years behaving like the dream needed permission to exist.

I am an author.

The pages prove it.

The half-finished chapters that kept me awake.
The notebooks swollen with ideas that would not leave me alone.
The stories pacing inside my skull like caged animals.

God, the wanting of it.

The brutal, humiliating, relentless wanting.

To make something real.
To be read.
To matter.
To leave words behind that might outlive this fragile little body.

I carried that wanting in silence for far too long.

Like something embarrassing.
Like ambition was an ugly thing.
Like dreaming loudly was somehow less dignified
than quietly disappearing.

No more.

I will carry unfinished manuscripts
like sleeping children—
carefully, fiercely,
knowing exactly how much of my own heart is wrapped inside them.

I will write in waiting rooms.
At kitchen tables.
Between invoices and heartbreak and exhaustion.
With my laptop balanced on bruised knees
and doubt breathing hot against the back of my neck.

I will write in the scraps.
In the margins.
In the ugly in-between places where real life leaves room.

And if the cracks are all I’m given,
then I will write until the cracks become sky.

Let the world keep its polished success stories.
Its overnight arrivals.
Its neat little narratives about timing and confidence and fate.

No one was coming.

No mentor with a golden key.
No perfect invitation.
No voice from above declaring:
Congratulations. You may begin now.

That is not tragedy.

That is freedom.

Because if no one is coming,
then no one gets to stop me either.

So I will crawl if I must.
Bleed if I must.
Break open and keep moving if I must.

I will claw my way toward every sentence
that has ever waited for me.

I will become so undeniable
that even the years I lost will have to make room.

And if the climb is ugly—
good.

Let it be ugly.

Let it be furious.
Let it be messy and breathless and wholly mine.

Let the floorboards remember the sound of this leaving.

Let the ground remember my name.

I am done waiting to feel legitimate.
Done waiting to feel ready.
Done asking invisible gatekeepers
for access to the life already burning inside me.

I am here.

I am writing.

I am becoming.

And I will drag every impossible dream I have ever loved
into the light with me
if it kills me trying.

Keep My Words Alive

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WHERE WORDS MEET MORNING LIGHT
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Poetry by Britt Wolfe:

Poetry
Shrunken
Shrunken

This poem was inspired by a feeling that is difficult to describe but impossible to ignore: the sense of watching a life slowly contract. Not through age or circumstance, but through fixation, regret, fear, obsession, or the weight of choices that narrow the horizon until possibility itself seems to disappear. Shrunken is not about any one person or any single story. It is about the tragedy of forgetting how vast the world still is. I hope that, as you read it, you feel both the sadness of that confinement and the quiet reminder that mountains still rise beyond the window, roads still stretch toward distant horizons, and life remains far larger than the cages the mind sometimes builds around itself. 💚

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The Blast Radius
The Blast Radius

Most conversations about harm focus on the victim and the perpetrator. What interests me is everyone else—the people who inherit consequences they did not create, whose lives are quietly altered by decisions made in rooms they never entered. A single act of violence can travel astonishing distances, reshaping futures, relationships, and identities long after the event itself has passed. This poem explores that invisible fallout and the uncomfortable truth that innocence has never guaranteed immunity from consequence. 💚

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The Chaser
The Chaser

This poem is about a particular kind of tragedy—not the tragedy of failure, but the tragedy of fixation. It was inspired by the realization that some people spend so much time chasing, comparing, resenting, or reacting that they never fully step into the extraordinary possibilities of their own lives. The Chaser is not really about any one person. It is about a pattern, a temptation that exists in all of us to look sideways instead of forward. I hope that, as you read it, you feel both the sadness of what can be lost to obsession and the quiet invitation hidden beneath it: to stop chasing shadows and begin building something beautiful of your own.💚

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The Beautiful Terrible Thing
The Beautiful Terrible Thing

I run five kilometres almost every day through a beautiful strip of nature near my home. It has become a deeply meditative ritual—a time when the noise of life quiets enough for ideas, questions, and poems to surface. This poem was conceived on one such run. Surrounded by towering trees, birdsong, sunlight on water, and the intricate beauty of a world that seems almost impossibly alive, I found myself reflecting on a question that has followed me for years: how can a world so breathtakingly beautiful also contain such profound suffering? The more closely I look at nature, the more miraculous existence feels. And yet woven into that same extraordinary tapestry are cruelty, injustice, violence, and heartbreak. The Beautiful Terrible Thing explores that contradiction. I hope that, as you read it, you feel both awe and discomfort—the wonder of being alive in a world so beautiful, and the responsibility that comes with sharing it with one another.💚

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The Bystanders
The Bystanders

This poem was inspired by a line from Alice Feeney's novel Sometimes I Lie, which lingered in my mind long after I finished reading. It made me think about the role of the bystander—not the person committing the harm, but the person who sees it, senses it, suspects it, and chooses silence. The Bystander is my reflection on the quiet power of courage and the equally powerful consequences of looking away. I hope that, as you read it, you find yourself considering the small moments when a voice, a question, or a simple act of standing beside someone can change the course of a life. 💚

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The People Pleaser
The People Pleaser

The People Pleaser is about the quiet cost of becoming everything for everyone except yourself. Many people pleasers are praised for their kindness, reliability, and generosity, yet beneath those compliments can live a profound loneliness—the loneliness of being deeply known by everyone except themselves. This poem explores the moment that pattern begins to break. I hope that, as you read it, you feel both the grief of all that was sacrificed in pursuit of approval and the profound relief that comes from finally asking a simple, life-changing question: What do I want? 💚

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It Happened Later
It Happened Later

It Happened Later is for anyone whose life failed to arrive on schedule. For anyone who spent years measuring themselves against timelines, milestones, and imagined deadlines, only to discover that some of the most meaningful things take longer than expected. This poem is not about giving up on dreams—it is about releasing the illusion that they must arrive on our timetable. I hope that, as you read it, you feel a little less burdened by where you thought you would be by now and a little more open to the possibility that your life is unfolding in its own wise and untidy way. Sometimes the best things arrive later. And sometimes later turns out to be exactly right. 💚

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Simply Is
Simply Is

This poem was inspired by a simple but surprisingly profound idea: perhaps not everything requires an explanation. So much of life is spent searching for meaning, certainty, and answers to questions that may never be resolved. Yet the natural world carries on without justification. Rivers flow. Mountains stand. Lilacs bloom. Simply Is is an invitation to step, if only for a moment, out of the endless pursuit of why and into the quiet peace of what already exists. I hope that, as you read it, you feel a little less pressure to understand everything and a little more permission to simply be where you are. 💚

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The Dark Tetrad
The Dark Tetrad

I’ve been reading a great deal about the Dark Tetrad—those intersecting traits of narcissism, Machiavellianism, psychopathy, and sadism—and found myself wondering what it might feel like to move through the world inside a mind shaped by those patterns. This poem is my attempt to imagine that interior landscape. I hope, as you read it, that you feel unsettled—that slow, creeping chill of realizing you are standing inside a psyche where charm is strategy, intimacy is leverage, and other people exist chiefly as instruments to be played.

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Carve Your Canyon
Carve Your Canyon

Carve Your Canyon is a poem about persistence—not the loud, cinematic kind we are taught to admire, but the quiet, often invisible kind that changes everything anyway. It is for anyone who has looked at the scale of a dream and felt impossibly small in comparison. For anyone who has wondered whether they are too late, too ordinary, too uncertain, or too tired to create the life they ache for. At its heart, this poem is a reminder that transformation is rarely born of spectacle. It is born of return. Of showing up again when no one is applauding. Of choosing devotion over drama. Because the most extraordinary lives, the most breathtaking art, and the most impossible dreams are so often carved not by force, but by the patient, relentless courage of simply refusing to stop.

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Fine: I’ll Drag Myself and My Dreams Out of Here Myself
Fine: I’ll Drag Myself and My Dreams Out of Here Myself

Fine: I’ll Drag Myself and My Dreams Out of Here Myself is for anyone who spent too long waiting—for permission, for confidence, for rescue, for the elusive moment when ambition would somehow feel legitimate enough to pursue out loud. It is a poem about creative hunger, late beginnings, and the furious clarity that comes when you realize no one is coming to hand you the life you ache for. At its heart, this is not a poem about effortless triumph. It is about grit. About dragging your dreams forward bloodied if necessary. About refusing self-erasure. About finally choosing yourself, your voice, and the stories burning inside you—even if the path forward is messy, exhausting, and entirely self-made.

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Dead Horse
Dead Horse

Dead Horse is about the painful moment hope finally collides with reality—and the realization that some forms of love do not die dramatically, but decay quietly over time while hope keeps mistaking absence for possibility. This poem explores nostalgia, grief, and the deeply human instinct to keep trying long after something has already ended. At its heart, it is a reckoning with the difference between love and longing—and the devastating clarity that sometimes the kindest thing we can do is stop trying to resurrect what has long since gone cold.

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I’ve Got My Hands Up
I’ve Got My Hands Up

I’ve Got My Hands Up is about the kind of surrender that does not come from weakness, but from exhaustion, clarity, and the hard-won understanding that some cycles survive only through continued participation. It explores the moment a person finally steps away from a dynamic that has demanded endless emotional labour, hope, and self-sacrifice, and discovers that peace is not found through victory, but through absence. Rather than framing surrender as failure, this poem reclaims it as an act of self-preservation—a quiet refusal to keep offering oneself to something that only knows how to wound.💚

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Relieved
Relieved

Relieved explores the complicated, almost disorienting feeling that can follow the end of something painful that once felt impossible to release. It reflects on the exhaustion of living beneath constant emotional tension—the way fear, hope, and survival can become so tightly intertwined that suffering begins to feel ordinary. Rather than focusing on triumph or revenge, this poem lingers in the quieter aftermath: the stunned relief of discovering that the body no longer has to brace itself for impact, and the fragile, unfamiliar freedom of finally being able to breathe without fear.💚

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Profoundly Sad
Profoundly Sad

Profoundly Sad is a meditation on the grief of unrealized closeness—the sorrow that comes not only from what was lost, but from what might have been possible if tenderness had been chosen over distance, honesty over self-protection, connection over pride. Rather than centring a single villain or dramatic betrayal, this poem lingers in the quieter devastation of erosion: the slow collapse of something that once held the potential to become safe, loving, and enduring. At its heart, it mourns the unbearable reality that some fractures are not inevitable tragedies, but human choices made gradually, repeatedly, and often too late to undo.💚

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My Best (Wasn’t Good Enough)
My Best (Wasn’t Good Enough)

Sometimes the hardest stories are the ones we must tell anyway. This poem was born in the quiet aftermath of pouring every ounce of love, courage, and effort into trying to protect someone who meant the world to me. I gave my absolute best—heart, hands, and sleepless nights—and still it was not enough. There is a particular kind of sorrow that arrives when your fiercest love cannot rewrite the ending you feared most. No redemption arc, no tidy moral. Just the raw, human truth of what it feels like when your best falls short and someone you love slips into the very darkness you tried so desperately to keep at bay. I offer it here with trembling hands, not because it is beautiful, but because it is true. If you have ever tried with everything you had and still came up empty, this is for you. You are not alone in the ache.💚

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I Hope You Live
I Hope You Live

I Hope You Live reflects on the quiet, often unnoticed ways we step outside of our own lives—watching, comparing, waiting for the right moment to begin. It explores the subtle drift into passivity, and the equally subtle return from it—not through grand change, but through small, imperfect acts of presence. This poem doesn’t urge transformation or promise clarity. Instead, it lingers in the moment of recognition, where something shifts just enough to bring you back into your own hours, your own voice, your own life.💚

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This Life Is Mine
This Life Is Mine

This Life Is Mine is a reckoning with the quiet ways a life can be given away without ever being asked for. It reflects on the years spent standing at the edges—supporting, accommodating, disappearing in ways that felt like kindness at the time, but slowly became absence. This poem doesn’t soften that truth or rush past it. Instead, it names the cost, and the moment of recognition that follows—the point where something small but irreversible shifts, and the act of choosing yourself begins, not as a grand declaration, but as a steady, deliberate return.💚

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The Quiet Finding
The Quiet Finding

The Quiet Finding explores the kind of love that doesn’t arrive in grand moments, but forms slowly through shared days and small, unspoken gestures. It’s about the quiet accumulation of care—the habits, the noticing, the choosing—that build something steady and real over time. This poem lingers in the ordinary, where love is not declared, but lived, and where the deepest connections are often the ones that grow without needing to be named.💚

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Every Beginning’s End
Every Beginning’s End

Every Beginning’s End explores the quiet, often unacknowledged truth that every step forward carries a subtle loss within it. It reflects on the small, nearly invisible ways we outgrow places, people, and even versions of ourselves—without ceremony, without pause. This poem lingers in that in-between space, where something is always opening as something else gently falls away, and where growth is not just an act of becoming, but an ongoing practice of letting go.💚

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The Offering
The Offering

The Offering reflects on the quiet, often unnoticed way possibility enters our lives—not as something loud or urgent, but as something small, steady, and entirely ordinary. It explores the idea that the future does not demand certainty or force, but unfolds gently through moments we might otherwise overlook. Rather than offering instruction or reassurance, this poem lingers in the present, where change begins almost imperceptibly, and where even the smallest shift in light can be enough to guide us forward.💚

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There Can Be Brighter Days
There Can Be Brighter Days

There Can Be Brighter Days is not a promise—it’s a quiet offering of possibility. It lives in the reality of long, uneven healing, where progress is rarely visible and hope doesn’t arrive on command. This poem doesn’t rush past the weight of addiction, instability, or the lingering echoes of survival. Instead, it stays with them, acknowledging how heavy and persistent they can be, while gently making space for something else to exist alongside them. Not certainty, not transformation—but the subtle, often unnoticed moments where things begin, almost imperceptibly, to shift.💚

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Grey
Grey

Grey is a meditation on the space between extremes—the quiet, often overlooked place where certainty softens and identity becomes something chosen rather than imposed. It explores the relief of stepping outside rigid definitions, of no longer needing to resolve every question or declare a fixed position. In this poem, the in-between is not confusion, but refuge—a place of balance, nuance, and quiet belonging, where contradictions can coexist and something more honest can begin to take shape. 💚

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Not Every Moment
Not Every Moment

Not Every Moment is a quiet refusal of the pressure to find hope in everything. It lives in the spaces where nothing resolves, where light doesn’t arrive on cue, and where simply continuing is its own kind of truth. This poem offers permission—to sit in the hollow without explanation, to feel without reframing, and to exist without needing to transform the experience into something meaningful or redeemable. It doesn’t promise that things will get better. It simply honours the reality that not every moment does—and that this, too, is part of being human. 💚

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Unacceptable
Unacceptable

This poem was written from a place that doesn’t try to resolve itself. It doesn’t reach for hope or redemption, because not every moment offers those things honestly. Instead, it sits inside one of the darkest emotional states—the feeling of being fundamentally wrong, of carrying something unfixable beneath the surface. It is not a declaration of identity, but a mirror of a real and difficult experience, one that many people move through quietly and without language. This piece doesn’t attempt to comfort. It simply bears witness. 💚

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From, But Not Of
From, But Not Of

From, But Not Of is about the quiet, complicated act of becoming—of carrying where you come from without being confined by it. It explores the tension between roots and growth, between honouring the places and people that shaped you and allowing yourself to evolve beyond them. This poem lingers in that in-between space, where identity is no longer inherited but consciously chosen, and where leaving isn’t a rejection, but a natural extension of who you were always meant to become. 💚

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The Messy Middle
The Messy Middle

The Messy Middle lives in the part of life we rarely celebrate—the long, uncertain stretch between beginnings and endings. It’s about the quiet work of continuing when nothing feels resolved yet, when growth looks less like transformation and more like endurance. This poem lingers in those in-between moments—the ordinary, unremarkable days that slowly shape us—where courage isn’t loud, and healing isn’t linear, but something steady, human, and deeply real. 💚

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This Old House: Chapter Fifteen
This Old House: Chapter Fifteen

This final chapter brings the story to a quiet, definitive close, not through resolution, but through continuation. This Old House: Chapter Fifteen returns the house to life, as new occupants arrive unaware of all that has come before, filling the space with their own rhythms, voices, and beginnings. Through the beam’s perspective, we are reminded that while lives pass through a place and eventually move on, something deeper remains—held, remembered, and unchanged beneath it all. As the concluding poem in this series, it offers a steady, unflinching truth: that life does not pause for what was lost, that new stories are built upon the remnants of old ones, and that what endures is not permanence, but the quiet act of bearing witness. 💚

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This Old House: Chapter Fourteen
This Old House: Chapter Fourteen

This chapter captures the final, quiet severing—the moment when what remained can no longer be held together. This Old House: Chapter Fourteen follows the youngest daughter as she reaches the point where staying is no longer an act of love, but a slow undoing of herself. Through the beam’s steady perspective, we witness the subtle shift from waiting to choosing, as she moves through the house one last time, recognizing what cannot be carried forward. It is a meditation on the kind of leaving that comes without conflict or closure, and on the profound stillness that follows when the last living thread finally lets go. 💚

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This Old House: Chapter Thirteen
This Old House: Chapter Thirteen

This chapter lingers in the quiet, devastating space where life continues but no longer feels lived. This Old House: Chapter Thirteen traces the slow, almost imperceptible decline of someone who remains physically present while steadily receding from the world around them. Through the beam’s steady perspective, we witness how time loses its structure, how care fades into repetition, and how a home begins to mirror the stillness it contains. It is not a story of collapse, but of erosion—the kind that happens quietly, without announcement, until what once filled a space is no longer there in any meaningful way. 💚

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Britt Wolfe

Britt Wolfe writes emotionally devastating fiction with the precision of a heart surgeon and the recklessness of someone who definitely shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects. Her stories explore love, loss, and the complicated mess of being human. If you enjoy books that punch you in the feelings and then politely offer you a Band-Aid, you’re in the right place.

https://bio.site/brittwolfeauthor
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