1994 was a mixtape made of shadow and sound. A year that felt like smoke curling from the edges of something holy and breaking. This poem is a tribute to the albums that stitched themselves into our souls—The Downward Spiral, Dummy, No Need To Argue—the kind of records that didn’t just play, they lingered. It was the year we learned how to grieve through melody, how to carry a loss we couldn’t explain, how to make room for silence where someone’s voice used to be. This poem remembers that ache. And it remembers the music that made survival sound almost beautiful. 💚

1993 was a year that didn’t shout—but it echoed. It was soft around the edges but heavy in the chest, a year defined not just by headlines, but by the music we played too loud in our bedrooms and the feelings we didn’t yet have names for. This poem is for the ones who remember. The ones who wore flannel like a shield and scribbled verses in margins. The ones who fell in love with heartbreak songs and carried the weight of a world that was just starting to feel broken. It was the year August and Everything After came out. And somehow, even now, it still feels like everything started there. 💚

There is a moment when a woman stops trying to be believed and simply begins to be. This poem is for that moment. For the breath that sharpens into resolve. For the quiet rage that never needed to scream to be real. It’s A Reclamation. A Rising. A Soft, Steady Roar is not about vengeance—it’s about return. It’s about rising from the ashes not with fury, but with clarity. This is what it sounds like when a woman reclaims her voice, her truth, her body, her name—and does it without asking for permission. She doesn’t need your validation. She never did. 💚

There is a particular ache in being misrepresented. In having your name twisted into something unrecognizable by someone determined to control the narrative. This poem is for the woman who grew up inside that distortion—who was cast as the villain in a story she didn’t write, whose truth was buried beneath someone else’s lies. They Will See You is a reminder that the world is bigger than that room. That there are eyes beyond their reach. And when those eyes land on you, they will not see a reflection of their words. They will see you. The real you. And that is where the truth will finally live. 💚

Some lies are clumsy. Yours were surgical. This poem is for the kind of betrayal so deliberate, so layered in performance and pretense, that it leaves behind not just wounds—but a full-blown psychological excavation. Lying Liar Who Lies is not about miscommunication. It’s about calculated duplicity. About the kind of person who rewrites history with enough conviction to believe their own propaganda. It’s vicious. It’s articulate. And it’s for anyone who’s ever had to claw their way out of someone else’s beautifully constructed fiction—only to realise they were never confused. They were just being conned.🖤

Some people don’t just love you—they become the light in your life. The beginning, the stillness, the warmth, the return. This poem is for the kind of love that doesn’t need grand declarations to be extraordinary. It’s the slow, sacred kind. The kind that shows up in sunbeams through the window, in a soft voice at dusk, in the moonlight brushing your skin when everything else has gone quiet. Poetry Disguised As A Man is a love letter to the one who reminds me daily that devotion can be gentle, and forever can feel like home. 💚

This poem was born from the soul-deep wisdom of my friend Melissa Zoller, whose words about “hope scrolling” stopped me in my tracks. In a world that often feels too heavy, too loud, too hopeless—she reminded me that there is still softness, still beauty, still something worth reaching for. I Am Here For The Hope is a love letter to that idea. It’s for the quiet scrollers searching for light, for the ones who keep showing up even when it hurts, for those who still believe in the possibility of something better. It’s not naïve to hope. It’s brave. 💚

Like a Lake in Summer was born from a quiet, powerful idea—that real love doesn’t rush in all at once, but meets you gently, exactly where you are. It was inspired by the feeling of wading slowly into something safe and beautiful, where each step forward brings more comfort, more calm, more truth. This poem is for the kind of love that doesn’t overwhelm, but welcomes. That waits, patiently, while you learn to trust its warmth. That wraps around you like water on a still summer afternoon—clear, steady, and always there to hold you..💚

The Porch Swing was inspired by a single line from a tiny poem I once wrote for the Petite Poetry Project: “my heart has a porch swing with your name on it.” That line lingered with me—soft and sun-drenched—and I knew it held more. I imagined a love that lingers like summer air, like wood warmed by years of memories, like something waiting patiently for someone to come home to it. This poem is for the kind of love that stays rooted, even through time and silence, always swaying gently in the direction of the one who feels like home.💚

Every horror story has that room—the one the locals avoid, the one with the door that closes just a little too slowly, the one with a number you shouldn’t say out loud. Don’t Stay in Room Thirteen is a mischievous little rhyme about what happens when someone ignores every warning and checks in anyway. With strict rhythm, classic rhyme, and just enough haunted hotel chaos to make you laugh and shiver at the same time, this poem is a cautionary tale for the curious, the skeptical… and anyone who thinks ghosts don’t have a sense of humour. Check in, if you dare—but don’t say you weren’t warned.🖤

There’s a particular kind of haunting that doesn’t scream—it watches. It lingers in the spaces we call safe, just out of reach, patient and quiet. I Never Left is told from the other side of that silence. This is the voice of a ghost not yet at rest, tethered not by vengeance but by memory. What begins as a familiar haunting slowly unspools into something stranger: a tale of a spirit unsettled by the living, unnerved by their presence, their noise, their breath. In this house, it’s not the ghost that needs to be feared—it’s the way the living disturb what should have been left undisturbed. Read it slowly. Let the dread bloom. And whatever you do—don’t turn your back on the mirror. 🖤

Some horror doesn’t arrive with blood or screams. It lingers instead—silent, patient, threaded into the corners of a room you once trusted. The Room That Watches is a quiet descent into that kind of fear: the kind that doesn’t chase you, because it knows you’ll stay. It’s about the unease of things slightly askew, the breath behind the silence, and the growing certainty that something in the house remembers you—even if you don’t remember it. This is a poem for the sleepless, the watched, the ones who leave a room only to wonder if they truly left. Let the fear rise slowly. Let it surround you like fog. And whatever you do, don’t look back at the mirror. Not just yet. 🖤

For anyone who’s ever waited to be seen—for the ones who softened their voice, shrunk their joy, and twisted themselves into someone else's shape just to feel worthy of staying. This poem is for the moment someone doesn’t ask you to earn it. Doesn’t need you to change. Doesn’t make you ache for crumbs of attention. They choose you—not in spite of your softness, your scars, your complexity—but because of it. This is what it means to be wanted without conditions. Chosen without begging. Held, fully and finally. 💚

Some loves don’t just fill you—they become you. They seep into your breath, your pulse, the spaces in your home and the pauses in your sentences. This poem is for the kind of love that remakes you from the inside out, so fully and gently that the idea of living in a world without them feels like forgetting how to be. It’s not about codependency—it’s about connection so deep, so sacred, that parting feels like grief before it even happens. This is for the ones you’d follow anywhere. Even to the edge. Even into the after. 💚

There are some people who enter your life like sunlight through a window you didn’t know could open. Who don’t just love you in spite of your wounds—but love you in the places where you thought you’d never feel anything soft again. This poem is for the ones who arrive after the survival story ends—the ones who make healing not just possible, but beautiful. For the ones who remind us that maybe we weren’t just meant to endure. Maybe we were always meant to bloom. 💚

We’re so often told that love must be chaos to be real—that it needs grand gestures, wild arguments, stormy reunions. But what if love is meant to be something quieter? Something that doesn’t demand, but invites? What the Movies Never Told Us is a poem about the kind of love that feels like slipping into a cool lake on a summer day—refreshing, honest, and whole. It’s about ease. About deepening, step by step, into something that doesn’t crash or consume, but holds you. A reminder that sometimes the most profound love is the one that lets you exhale.💚

Some loves don’t arrive to disrupt the quiet we’ve made for ourselves—they arrive to join it. To add to it. This poem is a reflection of that kind of love: gentle, reverent, unexpected. And Then, You is for anyone who has found peace in their own company, only to discover that the right person doesn’t take that peace away—they become part of it. It’s about the moment solitude shifts into something even more luminous, like the moon rising into a sky that was already beautiful, but is now breathtaking.💚

There’s something exquisitely brave about loving someone through fear—not because the fear is gone, but because the love is greater. This poem is an offering for those moments when hearts hesitate but still choose each other. It’s for the kind of love that doesn’t pretend to be fearless, but holds hands anyway and whispers, let’s stay. The Way We Begin is about facing love not as a guarantee, but as a sacred risk worth taking. A soft, honest declaration that says: I’m here. And I want to feel everything—with you.💚

There are times in life when blooming feels impossible—when the world is too sharp, too loud, or too cold. This poem is a reflection on those seasons, and a gentle reminder that we, like flowers, don’t bloom for everyone or everything. We bloom when we are safe. When we are loved. When the sun touches us in just the right way. Blooming Is Not the Same as Growing is a love letter to resilience, to tenderness, and to the quiet, instinctive pull toward light. It is for anyone who has ever withheld their colour until the world felt worthy of it. 💚

This poem is both a diagnosis and a declaration—a name for the cruelty that masquerades as care, and a voice for the child who was trapped inside its impossible logic. Double Bind Communication is a psychological tactic often used by emotionally immature or narcissistic parents to control their children without appearing cruel. It keeps the child forever wrong—too much, not enough, delusional, forgetful—no matter what they do. This poem is for anyone who was told their truth was a betrayal, their memories a crime, and their healing a threat. It is not just poetry—it is a testimony. And for those who know this pain, may it feel like being finally, beautifully understood. 💚