An Ode to Writing is my love letter to the craft that has shaped me, sustained me, and given me purpose. Writing isn’t just something I do—it’s the heartbeat beneath everything, the thread that weaves my thoughts into something tangible, the magic that turns fleeting ideas into something that lasts. This poem is a tribute to the power of words, to the late nights spent lost in creation, to the way a blank page feels like possibility rather than emptiness. Writing is my greatest gift, my greatest joy, and I will never stop writing.

Let’s be honest—writing is not for everyone. Some people try, bless their hearts, but the words just… sit there, lifeless, like a bad haircut on a humid day. Meanwhile, I? I wield the written word like a divine right. Some people are born to run marathons, some to paint masterpieces, and some (tragically) to do their taxes on time. But me? I was chosen—anointed by the literary gods—to turn mere ink into art. The Gift of the Word (And Lucky Me, I Have It) is a completely humble and not-at-all self-absorbed reflection on the rare, almost mythical power of writing well—a power that I, of course, possess. If this poem offends, don’t blame me. Blame talent.

The Gift in My Hands is a love letter to my craft, to the words that have shaped my life, and to the extraordinary privilege of building a career from the thing I was born to do. Writing isn’t just a job—it’s the pulse beneath my skin, the fire in my bones, the magic that turns thought into something tangible. This poem is my gratitude made lyrical, my deep, unwavering appreciation for the mastery I’ve honed since 2011, for the worlds I’ve built, and for the truth behind every cliché—when you do what you love, it never feels like work. Writing is not just my career. It is my calling.

Screaming at the Sky While I Sign My Book Deals is a deliciously petty, gloriously triumphant clapback to the kind of narcissist who thinks their hate has power—when in reality, I’m too busy thriving to notice their tantrums. This poem is for the ones who seethe while I succeed, who twist themselves into knots trying to rewrite history while I’m out here writing bestsellers. It’s about the ultimate revenge: not just surviving, but soaring. While they stew in their own bitterness, I am building, creating, thriving. And that? That must really burn.

The World According to You (Spoiler: No One Cares) is a scathing, sarcastic farewell to the kind of narcissist who truly believes they are the gravitational force holding the universe together—when in reality, they’re just a background glitch in lives that have moved on. This poem is for the delusional, the drama-obsessed, the ones who spin their own narratives thinking repetition makes fiction true. It’s a sharp, biting, and darkly funny reminder that no one is waiting for their next act, no one is reading their script, and no one—no one—cares about their never-ending performance.

If You Want to Know (Know That You Can’t Hurt Me) is pure catharsis—years of venom spit back at the source, a blade sharpened on the relentless grind of someone else’s delusion. This is for the narcissists who think repetition makes a lie true, for the bitter, spiteful ghosts who refuse to stay buried, for the unwelcome parasites who latch onto lives that have no room for them. You are not the centre of my universe. You are not even a distant star. You are static, white noise, a meaningless flicker in a life that has outgrown you. This poem is not an invitation. It is an exorcism.

The Weight He Never Carried is a Pantoum that captures the cruel imbalance between the bully who forgets and the person who must live with what was done to them. The structure of the Pantoum, with its repeating lines, mirrors the way trauma loops endlessly in the mind of the person who was hurt, while the one who inflicted it walks away without a second thought. This poem explores the weight of that erasure, the injustice of carrying pain that the bully never has to acknowledge. It is about the silence that lingers, the echoes that remain, and the suffocating truth that while he can move on without consequence, the damage does not disappear with him.

You Don’t Get to Be Over It is a spoken word poem about the staggering selfishness of bullies who claim they’ve “moved on” while the people they tormented are still clawing their way out of the wreckage. It’s about the absurdity of expecting someone to simply “get over” the damage inflicted upon them, as if pain works on the same timeline as the person who caused it. The bully walks away clean, weightless, forgetting the harm as easily as they inflicted it—but the person they hurt is left with the aftermath, the echoes, the scars. This poem is a refusal to let that injustice go unspoken. It is a declaration that you don’t get to be over it when you were never the one who had to live with it.

This Is Why I Hate You is not just a poem—it’s a reckoning. It’s a battle cry for every person who has ever been pushed to the edges, erased from the narrative, made to feel like they were nothing by the calculated cruelty of someone who wore a smile while holding a knife behind their back. This is for the ones who were excluded, whispered about, lied to, and lied about. The ones who woke up one day to find that their world had turned against them, that friendships had soured like spoiled milk, that their name had become a punchline to a joke they were never in on. This poem is fury without apology. It is the ache of betrayal, the weight of being left out, the deep and lingering damage of a bully who has long since moved on, while their target still carries the scars. It is everything left unsaid, everything swallowed down, now spat back out in fire and fury.

Aging is one of life’s greatest betrayals. One minute, you’re effortlessly keeping up with trends, wearing skinny jeans without fear, and understanding pop culture references with ease—and the next, you’re squinting at your phone, wondering when all your favourite bands became dad rock, and hearing the words classic Taylor Swift applied to an album that came out like yesterday. Am I So Five Minutes Ago? is a humorous, slightly existential reflection on the absurdity of aging as a millennial, from stubbornly clinging to side parts and invisible socks to the creeping realization that the world has moved on without us. It’s a lighthearted, darkly funny take on the moment you realize you’re no longer the target audience, but rather, an observer—one with aching knees, deep nostalgia, and an unshakable devotion to grey home decor.

Leaving one home for another is never just a journey—it is a reckoning of the heart. The Repatriation of Me is a reflection on the bittersweet reality of returning to Canada, a country I love deeply and am endlessly proud to call home, while leaving behind the chosen family that made Australia feel like home, too. It is a love letter to the wild beauty of this land—the mountains, the lakes, the endless trails where we wander with Sophie at our side. It is a celebration of new beginnings, of planting roots in a place where we can build a future, of embracing the values that shape this country we cherish. But it is also an acknowledgment of loss, of distance, of the ache that lingers when love is stretched across oceans. This poem holds the weight of both—joy and sorrow, gratitude and longing—because home is never just one place. It is the pieces we gather along the way, the love that remains no matter how far we go.

There are infinite versions of us—who we are, who we could have been, who we might still become. This poem is a reflection on the girl I never got to be, the one who grew up in a home filled with warmth instead of fear, with encouragement instead of absence. It is a mourning of what was lost, of what was never given, of the love that should have been unconditional but wasn’t. But more than that, it is a reckoning. A recognition that while I will never be her—the girl untouched by wounds I had to stitch myself—I have still built something whole from the broken pieces. I have fought for a life that does not mirror the one I left behind. And though I grieve for her, for the ease she would have known, I also honour the version of myself who kept going, who ran toward something better, who learned to make her own light. This is for her. And this is for me.

Running From Obsession is a harrowing, pulse-pounding reckoning with the terror of being hunted—of being pursued by someone who mistakes fixation for love, control for devotion. This poem is not a plea; it is a battle cry. It captures the exhaustion of always looking over your shoulder, of burning your past just to stay ahead, of knowing that to stop is to surrender to something unspeakable. With visceral, breathless urgency, it speaks to every woman who has ever had to run—not just with her feet, but with her entire life. If you’ve ever known the weight of unwanted obsession, of a presence that refuses to let go, this poem will shake you to your core. Click to read, and feel the power of running—not in fear, but in defiance.

Get a Life is a razor-sharp takedown of obsession, jealousy, and the relentless pettiness of those who can’t help but watch from the shadows. This poem is not just a dismissal—it’s a reckoning, a defiant proclamation that while someone else wastes their life seething in resentment, the subject of their fixation is soaring, unstoppable. With biting wit and unapologetic confidence, it flips the script on those who try to drag others down, reminding them that no amount of bitterness can dim a light that refuses to shrink. If you’ve ever had someone fixated on your every move—desperate to see you stumble—this poem will feel like an anthem. Click to read and bask in the satisfaction of knowing you’ve already won.

Stop Looking at Me is a blistering, unfiltered confrontation—an exorcism of unwanted obsession, a final severance from someone who refuses to let go. This poem crackles with rage, exhaustion, and the raw desperation of someone who has done everything to disappear, only to be hunted by a ghost who won’t take the hint. It’s not just a rejection; it’s a reckoning. A declaration that enough is enough, that someone else’s delusions will no longer define the boundaries of a life that does not belong to them. If you’ve ever felt the suffocating weight of someone else’s unwanted attention, if you’ve ever had to fight to reclaim your own space, this poem will speak straight to your bones. Click to read and feel the power of shutting the door—permanently.

The Ugliest in Every Room is a powerful reclamation of self-worth in a world that too often defines value by appearances. This poem speaks to the quiet pain of being overlooked, of feeling invisible in spaces where others shine effortlessly. But more than that, it is a defiant anthem—an unshaken declaration that true strength, resilience, and beauty are forged in the fires of dismissal and doubt. It challenges the idea that worth is measured by how others perceive us, reminding us that confidence is not given—it is claimed. If you have ever felt unseen, unchosen, or out of place, this poem is for you. Click to read and step into the light of your own undeniable presence.

The Ugliest Truth is a fearless dive into the darkness we often refuse to acknowledge—the hidden corners of the soul where blame festers, where cruelty disguises itself as humour, where silence wounds as deeply as betrayal. This poem does not shy away from the raw, unsettling nature of human imperfection, but instead, it holds up a mirror, demanding we look. Because within that reflection—within the ugliness we fear—lies the first spark of transformation. If you've ever wrestled with your own shadows, with the weight of choices left unmade, with the quiet hope that redemption is still possible, this poem will stay with you long after the last line. Click to read and step into the light that only comes from facing the dark.

The Heart’s Collapse is a raw, unflinching look at the weight of what we carry—the love we withhold, the pain we refuse to name, the masks we wear to keep the world from seeing the cracks. This poem doesn’t shy away from the quiet devastation of fear and guilt, but instead, it moves toward something deeper: the undeniable truth that facing our darkness is the only way to find the light. It’s about standing in the wreckage, stripping away the disguise, and meeting yourself—fully, honestly, unafraid. If you’ve ever struggled to own your reflection, to name the parts of yourself you’d rather leave buried, this poem is for you. Click to read and step into the beauty that begins where the breaking ends.

If I Let the World Know Me is a poignant exploration of vulnerability, the quiet ache of longing to be truly seen, and the fear of shedding the masks we’ve carefully built. This poem speaks to the weight of self-preservation—the hesitation before speaking, the instinct to retreat when love reaches too close, the exhaustion of curating a version of ourselves that feels safe. It asks the haunting question: What if I stopped hiding? If you’ve ever wondered what it would feel like to exist without apology, to embrace your voice without fear, this poem will resonate deeply. Click to read and step into the possibility of being fully, unapologetically known.

The Mirror and the Lie is a haunting, deeply personal meditation on self-perception, the relentless scrutiny of our own reflection, and the quiet war waged between who we are and who we believe we should be. This poem captures the way the mirror becomes both judge and captor, distorting reality with whispered lies of not enough. It speaks to the ache of searching for worth in glass, of longing to see ourselves through softer eyes, and of the exhausting ritual of doubt that so many know too well. If you've ever stood before a mirror and struggled to recognize the person staring back, this poem will speak to you in a way that is both raw and achingly familiar.