This poem was written after listening—again—to The Trick is to Keep Breathing by Garbage, a song that has always felt like a quiet unraveling. It’s about that strange, suspended state where everything hurts and nothing moves, and yet… you keep going. You breathe. Not because you believe things will get better—but because breathing is the only thing left to do.💚

Some memories taste like sunshine. Like childhood summers and cold drinks that fizzed with delight. This poem is for those moments—the ones we return to, again and again—not always for what they were, but for what we needed them to be.💚

Some losses carve themselves into you so deeply, there’s no un-feeling them. No moving on. Only carrying. This poem is for the ones we lost too soon—the ones who made beauty out of sorrow, who showed us how to wear our pain like art. And for those of us left behind, still listening. Still hurting. Still holding on.💚

There are so many voices we will never hear. So many masterpieces never made. So many lives shaped by a kind of quiet violence that leaves no visible scar—just a hollow where confidence should have been. This poem is for the children who never stopped being children, because they were never given the safety to grow. It’s for the artists, the thinkers, the world-changers who were raised by people who didn’t deserve to shape them. It’s a lament for the potential we’ve lost—and a fury that so much of the aftermath is left for the child to carry, alone.💚

Some books don’t just tell a story—they leave fingerprints on your heart. We Were Liars is one of those stories. E. Lockhart weaves a tale of privilege, longing, mistakes, and unbearable loss. What struck me most was not just the sorrow of what happened, but the haunting grief of what never would.

This poem is not a retelling, but a response. A tribute to the ache of futures extinguished by one reckless spark. To the ghosts we carry. To the beauty of art that breaks you, and then hands you a pen.

Because the best stories don’t end when you close the book.
They echo.
They inspire.
They linger.💚

Some endings do not come with warnings, and they do not come with mercy. They arrive quietly, without ceremony, and take everything. All Things End is a poem about that kind of ending—the ones that do not transform, do not teach, do not heal. The ones that simply are. This poem does not offer comfort. It does not try to make sense of loss. It only holds space for the reality of it: that some things end forever, and we are left to carry their absence with us, altered in ways language will never fully hold. This is not hope. This is aftermath. And still—somehow—we continue.💚

Some lives come quietly. Some fall into place with ease. And then there are the lives we chase—wild, hard-earned, and wholly ours. Not Is So Easy is a poem about that choice. About how easy it is to surrender to stillness, to not try, to let dreams remain untouched. But also about how something far more sacred waits beyond the exhaustion, beyond the doubt, beyond the ache of persistence. This poem is for the ones who run—not because it’s easy, but because something in them refuses to stop. Because they want the kind of life that can only be reached by chasing it down.💚

At first glance, the title might sound bitter. Like regret, or something lost. But You Can Keep the Beginning is anything but. It’s a quiet, reverent celebration of what love becomes—not in its first light, but in its long-burning glow. This poem is a tribute to the kind of connection that’s been lived in, weathered, and strengthened by time. To the intimacy that doesn’t shimmer on the surface, but runs deep, steady, and undeniable. It’s a reminder that while beginnings may be beautiful, they have nothing on the kind of love that’s been earned.💚

There’s a kind of love that isn’t safe. That doesn’t whisper or wait politely to be invited in. It arrives like a storm, holy and hungry, and reshapes everything in its path. The Things I Could Do to You is a poem about that kind of love—the wild, feral kind that bares its teeth and calls it devotion. It’s equal parts worship and warning. A reminder that sometimes the most beautiful thing you can do is surrender… and the most dangerous thing you can do is be seen.💚

Sometimes, people say things without realizing who they’re saying them to. Without thinking about what it means when they speak fear into the shape of someone else’s reality. I Am Your Worst Nightmare is a poem for those moments—for the ones who see strength and call it scary, who meet resilience and mistake it for threat. On the surface, it’s a warning. Underneath, it’s a quiet truth. Read it however you want. Just know—it wasn’t written for your comfort.💚

This poem was inspired by one of the greatest lines ever delivered on television—courtesy of Sassy from Ted Lasso. It’s the kind of savage brilliance that makes you pause, clap, and maybe re-evaluate your enemies list. I’ll Wear Red is a poetic homage to that energy. It’s for anyone who’s ever fantasized about showing up to a toxic person’s funeral—not with grief, but with flawless fashion, dry wit, and zero regrets. Because closure? Sometimes it comes dressed in red.💚

There will always be people who sit on the sidelines, never daring to create a single thing, and yet somehow feel entitled to tear down those who do. This poem is for every writer who’s ever felt the sting of baseless criticism from someone who’s never once faced the vulnerability of the blank page. If You’ve Never Bled on the Page, Hush is a reminder to take in the feedback that helps you grow—but to protect your voice from those who haven’t earned the right to shape it. Keep writing. Keep daring. And remember: if they’ve never built anything, their opinion carries nothing.💚

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel deeply, soulfully grateful to call this place home. Canada, in all its vast beauty and quiet strength, continues to take my breath away—whether it’s the mountains brushing the sky, the endless lakes that mirror the stars, or the kindness of strangers who feel like neighbours. Grateful for Home is a love letter to this land and the people who make it what it is. It’s a thank-you to the rivers, the forests, the freedom, and the quiet pride of being Canadian—not just by birth, but by heart.💚

I never want my words to reach for some distant, perfect version of you. I want them to find you here—in the mess, in the ache, in the quiet moments no one else sees. I don’t write to fix or force or lift before you're ready. I write to meet you. To sit beside you in the dark and say, “You’re not alone.” Right Where You Are is a poem about that kind of presence. The kind that doesn’t rush healing or demand progress, but simply offers a steady hand and an open heart—until you’re ready to rise.💚

I don’t write to impress. I write to ignite. Every word I put on the page comes from something deep and untamed in me—a need, a truth, a fire that refuses to be quiet. I write in the hope that something I say will crack you open. That it will slip past your defences and light up the forgotten corners inside you. To Set Fire is a declaration of that intention. A reminder that writing isn’t about being liked—it’s about being felt. Deep in your chest. In your gut. In your bones. This poem is for anyone who’s ever read something and thought, I didn’t know anyone else felt that too.💚

Some places take your breath away—quietly, completely. The glacial lakes of the Albertan Rockies are like that. They don’t shout their beauty; they hold it. With stillness. With grace. With a strength so steady it feels eternal. This poem is my offering to them. My attempt to honour their depth, their clarity, their gentle power. Where the Lake Holds the Sky is for the moments when you're standing at the edge of something vast and sacred, and you feel yourself reflected—not in the surface, but in the silence. In the knowing. In the way the water welcomes you without ever needing to speak.💚

There is a kind of trust that lives in water—a sacred, ancient knowing that asks us not to control, but to surrender. To be carried. To soften into flow. This poem was born from that trust. From the way a river moves with quiet authority, carving through the earth like it’s always known the way. She Lets the River Carry Her is about releasing the need to cling to certainty, and instead allowing yourself to be held by something older than fear. Something steady. Something alive. It’s a love letter to surrender, and to the quiet strength that comes from letting go.💚

There is something transcendent about standing among the mountains—something that quiets the noise of the world and reminds you of your place in it. Not in a way that shrinks you, but in a way that anchors you. That lifts your gaze and steadies your soul. This poem is a tribute to that feeling. To the hush that settles when you're surrounded by giants. To the ancient strength that lives in rock and snow and sky. Among the Mountains is an offering of gratitude for the way they hold us without asking, and for the peace that blooms in their stillness.💚