Studies have shown that 1 out of 5 women are infertile, at the same time 1 out of 4 women have found themselves in toxic relationships, I created this poem to illustrate the sad story of many women out there, This is the story Mrs. Balcom, a fictional character that meets these problems & has the urge to escape them.

This is a biography I did when I started to feel like my relationship with people was useless in a sense.

Content Warning: This poem discusses self-harm and suicidal ideation. Please prioritize your well-being before reading. This piece symbolizes my internal struggle with the desire to give up and the eventual journey toward overcoming it. I hope it resonates with you. <3

This is my most recent poem ! It explores the emotional struggle of silencing one’s own perspective to gain validation from an overwhelming parental figure. It captures the exhausting, submissive, and often lonely experience of sacrificing personal truth to feel recognized. I just hope you guys can relate to it seeing as how close it is to home <3

You view the ocean, you see beauty I see the color of a tear... Depression can alter your vision and desire toward life's beauty while the rest of the world seems to be enjoying.

“Stories In Blood And Ink” This isn’t metaphor. It’s a medical record written by a body the system never planned for. “Stories In Blood And Ink” maps the labyrinth of “care” — where we become our own damn doctors, memorize side effects like scripture, and fight to be seen as human, not anomalies. Here, ink becomes armor. Writing becomes a lifeline, a torch, a bridge. Each line turns scars into gold and lights the way for the next person so their story doesn’t echo ours. The tragedy isn’t our bodies. It’s their indifference. The answer is prophecy: “We are not anomalies. We are the future they didn’t foresee.” We write. We rise. We will not be silenced anymore.

Exploring the confusion and vulnerability of developing feelings for someone, and the moment when doubt turns into possibility.

Part II of The Inheritance of Rust. Because understanding it doesn’t mean it’s gone. Some things don’t fade— they adapt.

I didn’t stop hurting. I just gave the pain somewhere else to go— and somehow, it started sounding like poetry.

A journey from feeling unseen and without refuge to quietly continuing forward in faith—trusting that even in loneliness, there is still a path toward peace, light, and being held.

“When corruption moves out of the shadows and into broad daylight, silence isn't an option. 'Pardons for Sale' is a rhythmic deep-dive into the 'pay-to-play' schemes currently tearing at the seams of our justice system. A poem for everyone watching history unfold with a heavy heart and a demand for truth.”

As a feminine writer, the notes of beauty haunt each page as my ring clad finger glide over worn-slick keys. The new articles of divinity grace chapters of unrivaled glory. It is a new testament of beauty that Spring brings each year. Continue Reading.

A journey from feeling unseen and without refuge to quietly continuing forward in faith—trusting that even in loneliness, there is still a path toward peace, light, and being held.

The cry for help that goes unheard or falls upon a deaf ear. Turn your back, ignore my pain, hide the shame, and bury your guilt. A life destroyed by silence, no one cared

How will we remember you? I promise it won't be as kind You watch the poor starve As you hoard your last dime From the poem "The Hoarder's Legacy"

I felt like everybody else had their voices heard but mine. Being a young person in love will do that to you.

This is a poem that I came up with during a particularly emotional day. I hope some other people may also relate.

Stings trace my body, from chest, to arms, to stomach. I call it thunder. It floods me, leaving me to wonder when love became a storm, and why I let go of myself

Silent love screams in my chest, yet stays hushed in your hands. Shattered like glass after he walked away, I gather the broken pieces—October and November’s perfect warmth now only scorches me. From safe hugs to panic attacks, home burned to ashes. This scattered poem is a heartbreak puzzle: self-harm, abandonment, endless ache. Piece it together if you dare—you’ll feel why I still love him in deafening silence. Forever.

This piece paints a vivid picture of despair and cynicism. Love and goodness are just fleeting illusions in a universe indifferent. It's a journey through a world where every hint of light is just a mask for the shadows beneath, where time turns what we cherish into emptiness.