Some grief isn’t loud — it lingers like an echo that refuses to fade, shaping who you are long after you’ve tried to outgrow it. Inheritance Theory is a poem about the exhaustion of carrying what was never yours to hold, about breaking cycles that should have ended generations ago, and about the quiet work of rebuilding yourself from what remains. It isn’t about forgiveness or strength — it’s about truth, and the kind of survival that asks nothing more than the will to keep going.💚

Grief doesn’t live in anniversaries — it lives in the ambush. In the song that plays when you least expect it, in the street you forgot you once walked together, in the silence where a conversation should still exist. The Song Still Gets Me is about that kind of grief — the kind that doesn’t end, it just waits. It’s a reflection on the way absence lingers in ordinary moments, how memory has perfect timing, and how love, even when interrupted by death, keeps playing long after the person is gone.💚

Grief has a way of stopping time — of turning a life, a love, a presence into a punctuation mark. The End of the Sentenceis a quiet meditation on what happens after that full stop: the blank pages that follow, the half-formed words we keep trying to write, the ache that never really learns the language of absence. It’s a poem about the permanence of love and the unfinishedness of loss — how even years later, the heart still searches for a way to finish the sentence, even when it knows it never will.💚

This poem came from a realisation I’ve carried for most of my life—that people respond to pain in one of two ways. Some expel it, spreading their hurt as if that’s the only way to survive it. Others, though, absorb it. They take in the chaos, the cruelty, the unprocessed grief of others, and somehow keep the world from tipping further into darkness. The Absorption Method is about what it means to be one of those people—the quiet alchemists who turn pain into peace, even at great personal cost. It’s about the unseen toll of holding it all, and the reluctant grace in choosing not to pass it on.💚

Some memories settle into us like half-forgotten songs—soft at first, then suddenly everywhere, colouring the air around us with echoes of who we once were and the people we once loved. The Ghosts We Carry Home explores that delicate ache: the way certain loves never fully leave, choosing instead to linger in the quiet corners of our lives like familiar melodies waiting to be replayed. It’s a reflection on how music, stories, and emotion weave themselves through time, haunting us with their sweetness long after the moment has passed. This poem is for anyone who has ever been ambushed by a lyric, a place, or a December night—and found themselves back in the arms of a memory that still glows. 💚

Some losses don’t come with funerals. Some goodbyes happen while the person is still alive — too broken, too lost, or too unwilling to meet you where life requires. I’m Sorry You Couldn’t Be Here is a grief song for the living, for the people who couldn’t stay long enough to see what they were part of. It’s about mourning the future that never happened, the laughter they never earned, the softness they couldn’t hold. This poem is both an elegy and an act of release — a way of saying you were loved, but I’m still here, and that has to be enough.💚

We’re told that life is a race toward completion — that success, peace, and happiness wait for us at some invisible finish line. But what if we were never meant to arrive? Running Away From Finish Lines is about the freedom of living unfinished, the beauty of motion for its own sake. It’s a love letter to evolution — to staying curious, hungry, open, and alive. This poem celebrates the art of becoming without end, and the quiet rebellion of those who refuse to mistake arrival for fulfilment.💚

We spend so much of our lives chasing mastery—as though arrival were the point. But real living happens in the beginnings, in the awkward first tries, in the willingness to keep showing up to what we don’t yet understand. The Life Long Beginner is a celebration of curiosity and imperfection, a love letter to the endless process of becoming. It’s about choosing wonder over certainty, growth over comfort, and understanding that starting again isn’t a setback—it’s how we stay alive to ourselves and to the world.💚

There’s a certain kind of exhaustion that comes from always being the one who holds everything together — from mistaking control for safety, order for peace. Type A+ (Virgo As Fuck) is both a confession and a comedy: a love letter to the part of us that colour-codes chaos and a lament for the part that no longer remembers how to rest. It’s about the quiet tyranny of competence, the anxiety beneath achievement, and the impossible hope that maybe, one day, we’ll learn how to stop without unravelling.💚

We spend our lives chasing permanence, but maybe the beauty of being human lies in our impermanence — in the fragile, dazzling brevity of it all. We Are Moments In Time is a love letter to the fleeting nature of existence, and to the constellation of lives that make ours luminous. It’s about the tiny miracles that unfold between beginnings and endings — how every laugh, every touch, every act of kindness becomes its own eternity in the hearts it reaches. We are small against the vastness of the universe, but within the orbit of one another’s lives, we are infinite.💚

Depression isn’t always a collapse—it’s often a battle waged in silence, an unending watch against something that never sleeps. When the Sentinel Sleeps is a lament for the warriors who stand guard over their own minds, fighting an enemy that wears their voice and knows their weakness. It’s about the discipline of choosing to stay, again and again, even when the choice feels unbearable. This poem honours the unseen heroism of endurance—the quiet, holy act of waking up to face the dark one more time, even knowing it will come again.💚

We spend so much of life trying to dodge impact—believing that peace lives in the avoidance of pain. But true peace isn’t found in escape; it’s found in endurance. Learning To Take The Punch is about that sacred, brutal transformation—how strength isn’t the absence of hurt, but the willingness to meet it without losing yourself. It’s a poem about staying when every instinct tells you to run, about choosing presence over protection, and discovering that the blows don’t define you—your breath after them does.💚

There’s a strange, sacred kind of exhaustion that comes from being known for your strength. People call it resilience like it’s a crown, but it’s really a scar — proof that you’ve survived what should have undone you. I Am an Extraordinary Machine is both a declaration and a lament: a hymn for those who bend, rebuild, and rise again, even when they’d give anything to simply rest. It’s about the brilliance of the body and spirit that refuse to break, and the quiet grief of wishing the world would stop asking us to prove it.💚

We’re taught to worship compromise—as though love, friendship, and peace all depend on our ability to meet in the middle. But compromise often asks us to trade our truth for tolerance, to make ourselves smaller in the name of harmony. I Will Never Compromise challenges that mythology. It’s a poem about the quiet rebellion of staying whole—about refusing to dilute your essence just to keep the peace. True connection isn’t found in mutual surrender, but in shared creation: two people standing fully in themselves, building something honest and vast enough to hold them both.💚

There comes a point when you realize people aren’t seeing you — they’re seeing the version of you that makes them comfortable. The accommodating one. The forgiving one. The character who stays within the bounds of their story. I Don’t Owe Them a Character is about the rebellion of refusing that role. It’s a poem for anyone who’s been told they were “too much,” when what they really were was whole. It’s about reclaiming the right to be complicated, inconsistent, human — and about understanding that being misread is sometimes the price of being real.💚

We live in a world that treats the word sorry like a spell—utter it, and all is absolved. But apology without accountability is just performance; it soothes the speaker and leaves the listener bleeding. Your Apology Does Not Make Amends is about that quiet, painful truth: that words can acknowledge a wound, but only action can heal it. Forgiveness is not owed—it’s earned through change, through effort, through the humility of showing up differently. This poem speaks to the moment we stop confusing guilt for growth and begin demanding evidence instead of promises.💚

There’s a peculiar grief that comes from realizing someone never loved you—they loved the version of you that made them comfortable. The agreeable one. The one who said yes instead of asking why. You Only Love My Yes is about that moment of clarity that feels like heartbreak and rebirth at once—the recognition that some kinds of love are just mirrors, reflecting back obedience instead of intimacy. It’s about how saying no—finally, painfully—can sound like loss, but is really the first honest thing you’ve said in years.💚

There is a certain kind of courage that never looks like courage at all. It isn’t loud or visible or triumphant. It’s the quiet decision to turn toward what hurts instead of away from it—to enter the shadowed places of the self and sit beside the sorrow we spend our lives avoiding. Exploring the Caves of Sorrow is an elegy for that descent: the slow, necessary unearthing of our unhappiness. It’s about the radical act of feeling what we’re taught to repress, about learning that sadness is not a symptom of failure but evidence of depth. To confront sorrow is to confront our own aliveness—to recognize that grief, longing, and despair are not opposites of joy, but its proof.💚

Some people choose cruelty like it's a second skin. No matter how many chances they’re given to show kindness, they twist every opportunity into something sharp. You Are So Mean traces the slow erosion of feeling that happens when you’re hurt over and over again by someone who refuses to change. It begins in pain, moves through disappointment, frustration, and fury—and ends not in forgiveness, but in freedom. Because eventually, you stop expecting softness. Eventually, you stop letting it touch you. This poem is for anyone who has ever outgrown the grip of someone else's cruelty—and found peace in letting go.💚

Every family leaves something behind. Some inherit silver, others silence. Some receive heirlooms, others harm. This poem imagines the legacy of cruelty as a legal document — a sterile record of emotional debt, cataloguing the damage passed from one generation to the next. It treats pain as property, remorse as liability, and survival as the only form of payment left. Beneath its procedural language lies a simple truth: when love fails its duty, what remains is not inheritance, but cleanup.💚

Some people are born into gardens that never wanted them to grow. Places where love is conditional, success is an affront, and every attempt to rise is met with the slow, deliberate tightening of roots determined to keep you buried. This poem is about what it means to come from that kind of soil—to fight your way toward light while the very ground beneath you tries to pull you back under. It’s about the violence of outgrowing your origins, the grief of leaving them behind, and the sacred act of blooming anyway.💚

Some people don’t seek peace, they seek impact—any kind. They thrive in discord, mistaking the chaos they create for proof that they matter. The agent of chaos is a particular kind of creature: unpredictable, unmoored, and terrifyingly inventive in their cruelty. You can’t prepare for them, because conscience has limits and they have none. Yet even they cannot outrun the inevitable truth that no matter how much destruction they sow, people eventually leave. And when the dust settles, they’re left alone with the echo of their own ruin, confusing it still for power.💚

There is a particular kind of silence that isn’t peace, but surrender—the quiet that comes after a woman has spent years fighting to be heard, understood, or treated with care. It happens in marriages, friendships, families, workplaces—the slow erosion of her spirit mistaken for calm. This poem is about that silence. About what it costs a woman to finally stop fighting, and the haunting beauty of her stillness when she does. It’s not weakness. It’s the sound of someone reclaiming her last, unbroken piece of self.💚

There are songs that belong to people more than they ever belonged to the radio. Cadillac Ranch is one of those for me. Every time it plays, I’m transported back to a different version of us—the one before distance and disappointment rewrote the map. This poem isn’t really about a car or a song, but about how something as simple as a few chords can summon an entire lifetime: the hope we built, the heartbreak that followed, and the haunting persistence of memory. Sometimes the only way to survive what’s gone is to keep writing it down, over and over, until the ache feels like art.💚

This poem is about false transformation—the kind that masquerades as growth but is really just reinvention of the same harm. The Creature That Never Changed is a study in deceit: a being that sheds its skin not to evolve, but to disguise its rot. It’s about the predators who adapt only their masks, who mimic remorse and redemption while continuing to consume. The world often mistakes shedding for change, but this poem is a reminder that some creatures don’t evolve—they simply learn to hide their hunger more beautifully. 💚

This poem is about peace—the kind that comes when love stops feeling like uncertainty and starts feeling like home. Where My Heart Rests is for the person who quiets the noise, who loves not just the easy parts but the scarred and trembling ones too. It’s about the rare kind of love that doesn’t demand transformation, only presence. The kind of love that feels like a hand reaching through the chaos to remind you that you are safe, seen, and exactly where you’re meant to be. It’s about him—and the grace of finally arriving somewhere that feels like forever. 💚

This poem is about the kind of love that feels like exhale after years of holding your breath. I Get to Call You Home is for the person who steadies the world just by standing in it—the one whose laughter softens the hard edges of every day. It’s about finding safety not in walls or places, but in a person. The kind of love that doesn’t need grand declarations to be extraordinary because its power is in its peace. It’s about the simple, staggering miracle of finding your home in someone’s heart—and getting to stay there. 💚

Some poems are written from the centre of survival—the quiet aftermath where you’re trying to remember what it feels like to believe in light again. There Is Still Good in the World? is about that search. It’s about what happens when cruelty tries to shrink your world to the size of your pain, and how—slowly, stubbornly—you begin to find small proofs of beauty again. A loaf of bread rising. A song that still reaches you. A heartbeat that still belongs to you. It’s a question, yes—but one that ends with breath.💚

Some poems come from a place beyond words — from the hollow where endurance turns into silence. You Won (I Think I’m Dying Here) is one of those. It’s about what happens when cruelty becomes a constant presence, when the act of surviving starts to feel like burning. It isn’t a poem of surrender, but of truth — the kind that hurts to name, the kind that lives in the space between fading and fighting.💚

This poem is about the moment cruelty becomes contagious—the way abusers and enablers circle when they sense vulnerability, each taking their bite and calling it righteousness. Blood in the Water uses the metaphor of a feeding frenzy to explore how pain draws predators, and how survival becomes an act of defiance. It’s about what remains after the attack—the bone-deep resilience of someone who refuses to drown. Even when the water runs red, even when everything that can be torn is gone, what’s left still rises to the surface.💚