Poetry by Britt Wolfe
I publish a new poem every single morning. Or mourning. Depends on the emotional forecast. Some are tender. Some are rage in a nice outfit. All of them are my attempt to make sense of the human experience using metaphors, emotionally charged line breaks, and questionable coping mechanisms.
Let me be clear: these poems are fiction. Or feelings. Or both. Sometimes they’re exaggerated. Sometimes they’re the emotional equivalent of screaming into a throw pillow. Sometimes they’re just a vibe that got out of hand. They are not confessions. They are not journal entries. They are not cry-for-help-coded-messages. (I have actual coping strategies. And group chats.)
Poetry, for me, isn’t about answers. It’s about shouting into the abyss—but rhythmically. Some pieces will whisper, “Hey… you okay?” Others will show up uninvited, grab you by the collar, and scream, “SAME.” They’re moody, messy, and occasionally helpful—kind of like me.
You’ll find themes running through them like recurring nightmares or that one playlist you swear you’ve moved on from. Love. Grief. Identity. Joy. Ruin. It’s all here, jostling for attention like emotionally unstable toddlers on a sugar high.
Think of these poems as an ongoing conversation—one I started, overshared during, and have now awkwardly walked away from. Good luck with that.
Imagine Being You (A Study In Delusion)
Imagine Being You is a quiet reckoning wrapped in metaphor—a poem about the kind of person who builds their self-image on lies, who paints themselves as noble while standing on the wreckage they’ve caused. It speaks to the delusion of those who harm and still believe they are heroes, who bring suffering but call it sacrifice. This is a portrait of denial cloaked in self-righteousness, a study of someone who has left damage in every direction but still believes they are owed admiration. It is not a confession—it is a mirror held up to a man who will never look into it.💚
Radical Softness (For The Ones Who Still Care)
Radical Softness is a poem about the quiet rebellion of caring in a world that too often prizes cruelty. In a culture where empathy is dismissed as weakness and hatred is rewarded with applause, choosing to remain kind—to hold space, to offer help, to love fiercely and without condition—becomes an act of resistance. This poem is for the ones who still show up with open hands, even when the world tells them to close their fists. It’s a reminder that softness is not fragility—it’s courage.💚
The Permission Slip
The Permission Slip is a political poem about the danger of leaders who do not lift people higher, but instead give them permission to embrace their ugliest instincts. It speaks to a culture where cruelty is celebrated, where hatred is reframed as patriotism, and where bullying is justified under the guise of strength. This poem does not name names—but its meaning is unmistakable to those willing to look. It is a sorrowful reckoning with what happens when power chooses to inflame, rather than heal, and when a nation begins to mistake darkness for glory.💚
A Boat For The Unlived Years (A Farewell to What Never Was)
Bigger Than Themselves is a poem born from the heartbreak of watching how easily people will cling to hatred, even when it comes at the cost of their own well-being. It reflects the sorrow of our current political climate—a world where division is nurtured, rage is celebrated, and self-destruction is chosen over compassion. This poem is a lament for what could be, for the better future we keep setting fire to in the name of fear. It is a sorrowful witness to the way hate consumes not only its targets, but its bearers, leaving behind nothing but smoke where hope might have lived.💚
Ashes Of The Blood-Bound: A Viking Funeral For The Love That Never Lived
Ashes of the Blood-Bound is a poem of mourning for a bond that never became what it should have been. It is a viking funeral for a connection forged by blood but never strengthened by love. Inspired by the sorrow of saying goodbye not to a person, but to the dream of what they could have been, this poem honours the painful act of releasing what was never truly mine to hold. It is a tribute to the battles fought for a place that was never offered, and to the strength it takes to let go—not with anger, but with a kind of sacred sorrow and finality.💚
Viking Funeral: For The Love That Never Let Me In
This poem, Viking Funeral, was inspired by my Day 30 journaling prompt, where I reflected on the grief of letting go. It dives deeper into a sorrow I have carried for too long—the mourning of a love I was born into, but never truly received. This poem was born from the ashes of that grief: the longing, the double binds, the desperate hope to belong, and the painful realization that I was fighting for a place in a heart that had already shut me out. The Viking funeral imagery threads throughout the piece, symbolizing the final and sacred act of releasing what was never mine to keep. This is my farewell—a sorrowful, beautiful tribute to the love I wished for, but must now set aflame and watch drift away on the tide.💚
1995: For The Loud Girls, The Quiet Boys, And The Songs That Saved Us
1995 was headphones on the school bus, mascara smudged in the bathroom mirror, and lyrics scribbled in the margins of our notebooks like spells. It was rage and heartbreak and rebellion wrapped in distortion and melody. This poem is for the ones who came of age with Jagged Little Pill in their discmans, who found their reflections in The Bends and Not A Pretty Girl, who turned up Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness just to feel something sharp and real. It was a year that gave us voices for what we were afraid to say out loud—and for some of us, it was the first time we felt seen. 💚
1994: For The Ache That Changed Everything
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: For The Hush, The Hunger, And The Haunting
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. 💚
It’s A Reclamation. A Rising. A Soft, Steady Roar.
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. 💚
They Will See You: A Poem For Andrea
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. 💚
Lying Liar Who Lies
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.🖤
Poetry Disguised As A Man
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. 💚
I’m Here For The Hope
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: For The Kind Of Love That waits For You
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
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.💚
Don’t Stay In Room 13
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.🖤
I Never Left
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. 🖤
The Room That Watches: A Slow Horror In Verse
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. 🖤
What It Means To Be Chosen
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. 💚