Realm of the Wayward Witch

2024 in Verse – A Year to Banish

As the clock ticks towards 2025, I find myself reflecting on a year that has been nothing short of hellish. 2024 has been a relentless whirlwind of pain, resilience, and a stubborn refusal to back down. These poems are my way of processing it all—every tear, every laugh, and every moment I wanted to flip the universe a double bird and carry on anyway.

Some of these pieces will break your heart as they did mine—especially those written when my thoughts rewound (and they often do) to 2011—when my son, Benjamin, lost his fight with leukaemia. That whole section was added whilst I choked on tears. Others are laced with sarcasm and bitter humour, a reminder that sometimes laughter is the only armour we’ve got. Together, they form a tapestry of a year I’m more than ready to leave behind.

Consider this collection my spell of banishment. Through ink and words, I’m weaving a way forward, away from the bullshit and into a space of healing, growth, and maybe even a little peace.

And before you ask—yes, these poems are my babies too. All rights reserved, all thievery frowned upon. If you feel moved to share, be a decent human and ask for permission first. Otherwise, may your quill run dry and your ink turn to sludge.

Here’s to closing the chapter on 2024 and stepping boldly into a new year. I hope these words resonate, challenge, and, above all, remind you that even in the darkest times, we are never truly alone.

To the Outcast

Beneath the moon’s pale, indifferent light,
A soul wanders far from the circle’s sight.
An outcast, yes, but fierce and free,
Unbound by their frail conformity.

They whisper of you in their gilded halls,
Where masks of virtue hide crumbling walls.
Yet your spirit burns like a midnight flame,
Unafraid of shadow, unashamed of name.

The paths you tread are rough and wild,
But they bear the truth of the Earth’s own child.
With every step, you carve your way,
Through storm-clad night and silver-grey day.

For the outcast’s heart knows the untold song,
The hymn of the lost, the beaten, the strong.
You are not their kind, and that is your might,
A star that defies their heavens’ tight.

Though they cast their stones and turn their gaze,
You stand, unyielding, through endless haze.
The wolf alone may howl to the sky,
But its cry echoes louder than a thousand lie.

So here’s to the outcast, the breaker of mould,
The weaver of stories that go untold.
Your solitude is the price you pay,
For living your truth in your own raw way.

And when their whispers turn to dust,
Their chains will rust, their thrones will crust.
But you, the outcast, will still remain,
A beacon of courage through joy and pain.

Outcast’s Garden

In the garden of the world, under vast skies so blue, There blooms a flower, of a different hue. An outcast, it stands, in a field of green, Its unique colours, rarely seen.

In whispers of wind, and the sun’s gentle kiss, It holds its own, in isolated bliss. Not fitting in, yet standing tall, In its difference, it finds its all.

For in the shadows, away from the light, It discovers strength, and its own might. An outcast, perhaps, in the eyes of some, Yet in its uniqueness, it has won.

So here’s to the ones who don’t blend in, Who shine in their way, from within. For in the tapestry of life, every thread counts, In the beauty of diversity, their spirit mounts.

Elegy for the Ones Left Outside

Here lies the weight of empty rooms,
echoing with voices never calling.
The shadows grow long, companions unbidden,
stretching across the cold ground.

To be unseen,
to vanish in a crowd of faces—
a ghost that lives and breathes
but feels no hand, no anchor.
The world spun its dance,
and I watched from the stillness,
the music too far, the rhythm too strange.

Oh, how I built walls around my exile,
bricks of silence, mortar of longing.
Yet in the dark, I saw clearer than they—
those within their golden circles,
their laughter a blade dulled by habit.

Who mourns for us,
the wanderers in the quiet woods,
the wanderers in our own minds?
We carry stars unseen by any other,
burning in solitude.

Now, I stand at the edge,
and I do not grieve the walls,
nor the absence of their gaze.
I grieve only the loss of belief—
the small light that once whispered,
You belong.

Let this be a hymn for the outcasts,
the ones who walk alone.
May they find their own constellations,
chart their paths in the sky.
Let the night not close around them,
but cradle them like an old friend,
always waiting, always still.

Gratitude

In the quiet moments before dawn, When the world whispers in a soft yawn, Gratitude sits, a gentle reminder Of the beauty that waits for those who find her.

She is the warmth in a friend’s embrace, The light in a loved one’s face, A melody in laughter’s grace, An anchor in life’s relentless race.

Gratitude is the morning sun, Breaking the night, saying the dark is done. She’s the stars, in the vast night sky, Whispering, “You’re alive, and isn’t that wondrous, why?”

She dances in the rain’s fresh touch, In the silence, speaking volumes, much. In every breath, every heartbeat’s thrum, A symphony of existence, from which we come.

Not bound by gifts of material kind, But in the moments, memories intertwined. In kindness given, and received, In the strength found when we believed.

Gratitude is the foundation, the core, A way of being, an open door. To see the beauty in every day, To walk in life a thankful way.

So, here’s to gratitude, an art, A practice, a choice, a place to start. To live, to love, with open heart, Gratitude, life’s most beautiful part.

For Imbolc

The snow begins to melt, whispers call through the land,
Hope stirs in the earth, embers small through the land.

Brigid’s flame flickers, a beacon of rebirth,
A promise of light breaking thrall through the land.

The lambs take their first trembling steps on cold ground,
A rhythm of life, faint but tall through the land.

I light my own candle, a spark in the shadows,
Its glow touches dreams held in thrall through the land.

The wheel turns again, winter loosens its grip,
And seeds start to stir, roots sprawl through the land.

Oh Brigid, your fire ignites in my soul’s hearth,
A warmth that will carry us all through the land.

For Ostara

Here lies the quiet of the dawn,
the balance fleeting as day meets night.
Ostara, goddess of tender beginnings,
you breathe life into the soil,
but even your gifts must fade.

The blossoms will wither,
petals falling like forgotten promises.
The green will deepen,
lush and full,
but it will no longer carry
the fragile hope of its first bloom.

Your eggs, so carefully painted,
hold the promise of what’s to come.
Yet, in their breaking,
a part of you is lost—
the innocence of potential,
the dream before its awakening.

The hare runs through the meadow,
its steps quickened by the turning wheel.
Soon, spring will rush headlong into summer,
its gentleness burned by the sun.

Ostara, we mourn the fragility of balance,
the fleeting stillness of your gift.
For the equinox is but a breath,
a fleeting hymn in the song of seasons,
and already it recedes
like shadows beneath the lengthening light.

Still, we honour you,
your brief and perfect bloom.
For in your passing, you remind us:
Life begins,
but it does not linger.

Witches’ Hymn for Beltane

Beneath the hawthorn’s blossomed veil,
Where whispers ride on moonlight’s trail,
The earth awakes, her breath runs wild,
The wheel turns fast, the night beguiled.

The God appears, with antlers crowned,
His footsteps shake the fertile ground.
The Goddess rises, soft yet fierce,
Her gaze, the night’s deep heart to pierce.

Their dance begins, a primal fire,
A rhythm born of raw desire.
The flames leap high, the shadows play,
To honour Beltane’s holy day.

Through fields of green and forest’s keep,
Where secrets lie, and roots run deep,
They twine as one, in lust and grace,
The wild within, no time, no space.

The fire roars; the circle swells,
A sacred hymn the night compels.
Lovers’ cries and whispered vows,
Beneath the stars and bending boughs.

Oh, Beltane’s flame, oh, Beltane’s lust,
Turn flesh to fire, ash to dust.
A hymn to life, to seed, to bloom,
To love that thunders, hearts consumed.

So witches dance, our souls set free,
In passion’s purest ecstasy.
For life is fire, and fire is life,
Through Beltane’s night, the sacred rite.

Witch’s Hymn for Litha

The sun stands high,
a golden crown upon the world’s brow.
Light spills like honey,
filling the air with warmth,
with life,
with promise.

The earth hums beneath my feet,
a melody of roots and rivers,
of blossoms bursting in fields ablaze.
The longest day is ours,
a moment to stand in the glow,
to honor the fire
that makes us whole.

I gather herbs in the noon’s embrace,
sage for wisdom,
lavender for peace,
thyme to stretch the magic of this day
into the threads of forever.
I weave them into garlands,
crowns for spirits and kin,
offerings to the sun’s unyielding grace.

The fire is lit,
its flames a twin to the heavens’ blaze.
I whisper my wishes into the smoke,
watching them rise
to the sun’s eternal eye.
This is the hour of abundance,
of joy spilling over,
a chalice too full to hold.

Barefoot, I dance upon the earth,
my shadow at last consumed
by the light that cradles me.
I am the leaf,
the flame,
the fleeting spark that burns bright
before twilight’s tender sigh.

And as the sun begins its descent,
a bittersweet farewell lingers.
The wheel turns,
even in the height of glory.
But tonight,
we are golden,
wrapped in Litha’s embrace,
alive in the endless fire.

Solstice Dawn

The horizon blazes, a quiet flame,
where night’s last breath meets the sun’s ascent.
Each moment spills gold over the earth,
a hymn unsung, yet felt in every shadow.

I stand barefoot on dew-kissed grass,
the chill clinging to my skin
as if to remind me
this light is not without cost.

The sun rises slowly,
pulling the world awake with its fire.
The trees stretch their limbs,
offering green prayers to the sky,
and the air hums with life
too small to see, yet infinite in its rhythm.

This is not just morning;
it is creation, renewal,
the heartbeat of the turning year.
The light touches my face,
and for a moment,
I am part of the dawn—
its promise, its beauty,
its fleetingness.

For soon, this brilliance will wane,
and the days will grow shorter,
but for now, I breathe in the fire
and carry it with me.

For Lammas

The fields are full, the golden grain is near,
The scythe awaits, its blade so sharp and bright.
We honour harvest, yet we feel the fear.

The sun dips lower, whispers in our ear,
The wheel is turning toward the coming night.
The fields are full, the golden grain is near.

A feast of bread and fruit brings us good cheer,
Yet shadows lengthen, dimming summer’s light.
We honour harvest, yet we feel the fear.

The earth grows weary, autumn’s edge is clear,
The reaping comes, though bounty is our right.
The fields are full, the golden grain is near.

Oh, Mother Earth, you cradle what is dear,
Yet yield must fade, and life must take its flight.
We honour harvest, yet we feel the fear.

Though joy abounds, the cycle’s truth is here,
All things must pass into the longest night.
The fields are full, the golden grain is near,
We honour harvest, yet we feel the fear.

For Mabon

The equinox arrives like a whisper, balancing light and shadow on the edge of the world. The fields are quiet now, their bounty gathered, their labour done. Golden leaves fall like memories, each one carrying the weight of summer’s laughter, now fading into the amber glow of autumn.

Mabon sits at the table, a feast spread wide, the air thick with gratitude and quiet farewells. The bread is warm, the wine rich, yet bittersweet. We celebrate the harvest, the fullness of life, knowing it cannot last. This is the moment to pause, to hold the fading light in our hands, to honour the turning of the wheel.

The earth exhales, her breath cool and crisp, carrying the scent of apples and damp soil. Shadows stretch long over the hills, softening the edges of the world. The sun sinks lower, painting the sky with fire, and we gather close, wrapping ourselves in the warmth of what remains.

This is the twilight of the year, a liminal space where endings and beginnings meet. The past whispers through the rustling trees, while the future lingers just beyond the horizon. And in this stillness, in this perfect balance, we give thanks—for the gifts we hold, and for the lessons of letting go.

Witch’s Hymn at Samhain

The veil thins tonight,
soft as spider silk,
parting between worlds where shadows linger.
The air hums with whispers,
voices of the unseen,
their words weaving a tapestry of the past.

A circle drawn, sacred and sure,
salt marking the edge of now and beyond.
Candles flicker like spirits,
their light dancing with the wind.
Smoke curls from the cauldron,
its scent of herbs and earth
calling ancestors from their slumber.

The moon, pale and watchful,
rises above the bare-limbed trees,
casting silver spells on the forest floor.
A bowl of wine, a loaf of bread,
offerings to the lost,
to the forgotten who whisper our names in the dark.

We call them forth—not to haunt,
but to remember,
to gather their wisdom
like fallen leaves.
The wheel turns, they say,
life and death a spiral,
a never-ending dance.

The fire crackles,
its warmth a shield against winter’s breath.
I cast my wishes into the flames,
my hopes riding the sparks
to the stars that hear all.
Here, on this night of shadow and flame,
I stand between what was and what will be,
a witch, a keeper of the in-between.

Samhain holds its breath,
the night alive with promise.
And as the veil closes,
I bow to the dark,
to the light,
to the turning wheel
that carries us all.

Yuletide

The longest night, the world stands still,
The frost lies heavy on the hill.
The stars shine bright, their icy fire,
Guiding hearts to hope’s desire.

The holly and ivy weave their spell,
A promise whispered where shadows dwell.
The Yule log burns, its embers glow,
Warming spirits through the snow.

We gather close, both kin and friend,
To mark the dark and light’s ascend.
For though the cold winds howl and bite,
The wheel will turn, returning light.

So raise your voices, let joy take flight,
Through winter’s veil, a sacred night.
A time to honour, a time to sing,
The rebirth of the Sun, and all it brings.

Winter Wheel

As autumn leaves begin to fall,
The earth prepares for winter’s call.
The harvest’s done, the fields are bare,
A chill now lingers in the air.

The sun dips low, the nights grow long,
The woodland whispers winter’s song.
The frost lays claim to grass and tree,
And bids farewell to summer’s plea.

The wheel turns slowly, season’s end,
From warmth to cold our paths descend.
The world, now wrapped in icy pall,
Breathes summer’s last before winter’s death call.

Spinning of the Wheel

The seasons shift, a timeless, endless dance,
From blooming spring to winter’s frost-bound song.
Each leaf and petal tells its fleeting chance.

Bright summer burns beneath the sun’s expanse,
Its golden days so vivid, brief, and strong.
The seasons shift, a timeless, endless dance.

Cool autumn whispers, dressed in hues askance,
Her amber winds pull faded leaves along.
Each leaf and petal tells its fleeting chance.

Now winter wraps the earth in solemn trance,
Her icy breath both fragile and yet wrong.
The seasons shift, a timeless, endless dance.

But spring returns with green’s persistent lance,
Reviving life where shadows lingered long.
Each leaf and petal tells its fleeting chance.

The cycle spins, a rhythm of romance,
Its ancient pulse in nature’s steady throng.
The seasons shift, a timeless, endless dance,
Each leaf and petal tells its fleeting chance.

For Benjamin

The house still remembers you,
Benjamin,
each room echoing your laughter
like a song caught in the walls.
Your white-blonde hair,
a halo under the sun,
a light I can never touch again.

Your Xbox sits untouched now,
the controller cold,
your favourite game frozen on the screen.
Halo—you called it that,
as if you knew
you were destined for one.
I imagine you there still,
fingers dancing over buttons,
shouting triumph,
your world vibrant and unbroken.

But leukaemia whispered otherwise,
its shadow stretching long,
stealing hours,
stealing you.
I watched helpless
as you fought,
as your brightness dimmed,
your strength slipping like sand through my fingers.

Ten years, Benjamin.
Not nearly enough.
The years since
are filled with the weight of your absence—
your bed, your chair,
your shoes at the door.
Even the air feels heavy
without the sound of your joy.

I still see you in dreams,
laughing,
haloed by sunlight or stars.
I reach for you,
but you fade,
leaving only this ache,
this hollow carved deep into my chest.

Benjamin, I carry you always—
your name a rhythm in my heart,
your face a beacon in the dark.
And though the world feels quieter now,
I will keep your memory alive,
a light unyielding,
as eternal as the stars you left behind.

Winter’s Tide: For Benjamin

The sea churns in winter,
its waves dark and unrelenting,
a mirror of the storm within me.
The wind screams your name, Benjamin,
carrying echoes of your laughter
that shatter against the cliffs.

The horizon is grey,
a vast expanse where the sky weeps into the ocean,
indistinguishable, infinite—
like the ache of losing you.
Your ashes lie there now,
mingled with salt and foam,
a part of the restless sea.

I think of you in every crash of the waves,
their cold power,
their endless rhythm.
You are the wild surge,
the defiant roar of the ocean
that refuses to rest.

Winter holds the world hostage,
its frost biting at bare branches,
its breath sharp and unyielding.
I feel its weight in my chest,
its silence pressing down,
as if the season itself mourns you.

Yet, even in the storm,
there is beauty.
The waves glisten like silver in the pale light,
the seafoam curls like your white-blonde hair.
You are not gone,
not entirely—
you are the wind,
the spray of the sea,
the unyielding tide that carries me forward.

When I stand at the shore,
the cold biting through my coat,
I close my eyes and hear you.
Your laughter rides the storm,
your spirit dances in the waves,
and for a moment,
you are here.

The Summer Shore: For Benjamin

The sun glows warm,
its rays weaving golden crowns
on my children’s heads as they run,
laughing, into the waves.
The sea is gentler now,
a summer lullaby
where once it roared your absence.

Their voices rise in joyous chaos,
but beneath it,
I hear the echo of a laugh
I will never hear again.
Benjamin,
you should be here,
your white-blonde hair catching the light,
your footprints chasing theirs in the sand.

The tide pulls at my feet,
as if to remind me:
you are here,
somewhere in the salt and spray,
in the whisper of waves that lap
against this endless shore.

I see you in their faces—
a tilt of a head,
a certain squint against the sun.
But it is never enough.
Memory is cruel,
a trick of light that fills my heart
only to hollow it again.

The sea sparkles,
unaware of what it holds.
It carries your ashes in its depths,
its rhythm beating out the weight of time.
I wonder if it remembers you
as I do,
in every breath, every thought,
every bittersweet moment of this summer day.

The children call me,
their hands full of shells and sand.
I smile, I go,
but my heart remains with the waves,
searching for you in their endless motion.

Haiku on Hate

Flames lick at the heart,
shadows twist where trust once stood—
cold winds never rest.

Abyss Within

Beneath the mask, a shadow creeps,
A wretched thing that never sleeps.
It whispers low, a siren’s call,
Dragging you into its thrall.

The sun may rise, but light won’t stay,
It dims to ash and fades away.
A heavy fog where hope once burned,
Each joy undone, each dream unlearned.

Its hands are claws, its grip is tight,
A constant weight, a thief of light.
It paints the world in shades of grey,
And steals the dawn from every day.

The mirror cracks, the self distorts,
A fractured mind, a life cut short.
It hums a tune, so sharp, so sweet,
A dirge for hearts it can defeat.

No stars to guide, no maps to read,
Just barren soil where thoughts will bleed.
You scream aloud, but none can hear,
The silence deafening, drawing near.

It wears your face, it knows your name,
It feeds on guilt, it thrives on shame.
An endless void, a yawning maw,
A shadow beast with sharpened claw.

Yet deep within, a spark may hide,
A stubborn ember tucked inside.
Though it feels small, though it feels weak,
Its warmth might heal, its glow may speak.

For even darkness fears the fire,
The will to climb from muck and mire.
Though whispers haunt and shadows cling,
A fragile soul can still take wing.

Ghazal of the Turning Tides

The moon sways my heart, then breaks it again,
Each tide pulls me close, then takes it again.

Elation ignites, a fierce, burning star,
But shadows creep in to stake it again.

No anchor holds in this storm-torn sea,
Waves rise to kiss sky, then quake it again.

I sing when I soar, my voice reaching heights,
But silence soon comes to forsake it again.

The cycle is cruel, its rhythm unkind,
It gives what I crave, then flake it again.

Oh Bipolar, my love, my relentless foe,
How you shape my soul, then break it again.

Bipolar Dance (Haiku Chain)

Euphoric sunrise,
Sky ignites with wild colours—
Limitless, alive.

Winds shift, clouds gather,
A storm whispers through my mind—
Anchor lost at sea.

Moonlight cuts the dark,
Quiet breaths between the waves—
Balance feels fragile.

Hope flickers faintly,
Through the chaos, calm will bloom—
Cycle turns again.

Inferno of the Mind

I am the storm, the blazing gale,
A comet’s fire, a serpent’s tail.
The world spins fast, a fevered reel,
Each moment sharp, each colour real.

I soar on wings of molten gold,
A goddess crowned, a heart untold.
My thoughts ignite, they bloom, they race,
Outpacing time, outstripping space.

Each word I speak’s a lightning strike,
Each step I take, a mountain’s hike.
I am the river’s roaring might,
The blinding flash that cuts the night.

No boundary holds, no rule applies,
No fear exists, no tether ties.
I grasp at stars with hands of flame,
I rename worlds, I play the game.

I dance with chaos, waltz with fire,
My pulse a drum, my veins desire.
The universe, a pliant toy,
A treasure trove, a fleeting joy.

Yet shadows creep behind the blaze,
A fleeting doubt, a foggy haze.
For what goes up must someday fall,
And crash to earth, consumed by all.

But while I burn, while I am whole,
I own the heavens, I am the soul.
A mania’s spark, a tempest’s art,
A universe within my heart.

Liminal Offering

Boots sink into rain-soaked grass,
a path carved betwixt human hands
and the wild ache of ancient woods.
High above, I perch unseen,
a secret held by the silent trees.

Tears slip to meet the earth,
an offering, perhaps—
my soul poured out to theirs,
pleading, take this weight,
this gnawing sorrow, this shadowed grief.

The inky black sky descends,
no moon to guide, no lantern to hold.
Only the trees remain,
their stillness anchoring me
in the storm of my anguish.

Chaos Within

“Take time, come on, come outside, see me, talk to me.”
I cannot. My mind is full of hatred and despair. Leave me alone, go away, I hate you.

“You’re fantastic! Look what you did!”
No I am not. I am hell. A twisted, blackened soul. I deserve to rot.

“No, not like that, try this instead, you’ll see.”
Fuck you. I am fury — I will light you ablaze and leave you a fear, wretched, husk.

To the Shadow and the Spark

Dear Keeper of my Storm,
You arrive uninvited, a guest who never leaves.
Your name—whispered in quiet shame—
Bipolar, bearer of light and dark.

When you gift me the spark,
I am invincible, a star untethered.
I leap where earth fears to tread,
My laughter louder than the heavens’ roar.
But your gifts are barbed;
Joy spills, uncontained, drowning reason.

And then—your shadow.
A velvet void pulls me under,
Stealing air, extinguishing light.
I am nothing, no one.
Your silence is deafening;
You hum a dirge of apathy.

What am I to you?
A vessel for your chaos,
A mirror for your madness?
Or do you love me in your way,
Binding me to this dance of extremes?

I write to you not for answers—
You never speak, only take.
I write to mark the tides you bring,
To map the shorelines of my becoming.

Yours, begrudgingly and always,
The One You Cannot Break

Haiku on Depression

Gray clouds press the sky,
echoes linger in the soul—
light hides far away.

The Weight of Screams

The air is thick with voices—
too many, too loud,
clawing at my mind,
each one a scream I can’t silence.
They rise,
a cacophony that presses against my skull,
threatening to crack it open
like brittle glass.

Tears burn tracks down my face,
but they’re not enough.
They’re never enough.
The black pools inside,
thick as tar,
coiling tighter,
a suffocating snake
wrapping itself around my ribs.

I want to tear it out,
cut it free,
peel back this skin
like a curtain to expose the rot beneath.
Let the black spill,
let it pour out in rivers,
drowning the voices,
filling the hollow spaces they’ve left.

The walls close in,
their shadows sharp,
their whispers relentless.
I scream,
but my voice is swallowed,
devoured by the very void
it seeks to escape.

There’s no light here,
no stars to guide me back.
Only the weight of everything—
the crushing, aching everything—
pressing me down,
down,
until I am nothing
but a silent scream
carved into the darkness.

Elegy for the Silence Between Storms

I mourn the quiet days,
those fleeting hours of balance
when the pendulum paused
and the world softened into stillness.
No fire, no ash,
only the hum of ordinary light.

Mania, you were a reckless muse,
painting skies too bright to bear,
your laughter rang like shattered glass.
But how could I not love you?
You who made me god and fool
in the same breath.

Depression, you came cloaked in velvet,
a thief with gentle hands,
robbing me of mornings,
stealing my name.
Your voice was a song of drowning,
low and relentless.

Today, I stand where your shadows meet,
a ghost of all your tides.
I gather the ruins you left—
brilliant shards,
soft whispers of the void—
and try to build a self
from the wreckage.

If peace comes,
let it not be silence,
but a melody neither cruel nor kind,
a hymn of small mercies,
a fragile tether to the now.

Echoes

Screams echo inside,
fractured glass behind my eyes—
shards that never heal.

Collapse

(Written after a mental shutdown)

The world flickers,
like a dying bulb.
Sounds come muffled,
as if underwater,
their edges dull,
their meanings slipping away.

Inside, everything stills—
a heavy, suffocating quiet,
like the moment before a storm
that will never break.
Thoughts tangle and freeze,
words slip through cracks in my mind,
their weight unbearable,
their shapes incomprehensible.

I try to move,
to act,
to think,
but my body refuses.
Each limb feels distant,
alien,
as if it belongs to someone else.
The air presses down,
thick and cruel,
a gravity that drags me into myself
and locks me there.

A scream forms in my throat,
but it never comes.
Even sound is too much,
its sharpness unbearable.
The walls blur,
their colors melting into gray,
a prison of nothingness.

This is not peace.
This is erasure.
This is a world that turns without me,
a clock ticking in the distance,
its rhythm a mockery of the stillness inside.

I am here,
and yet I am not.
I am collapse,
a hollow shell folding inward,
a mind shutting its doors,
locking the chaos inside
where it cannot escape,
where I cannot escape.

The Wind Speaks

The wind howls through the eaves,
A voice older than time,
Ethereal and wild,
Not bound by the rules of this world.

It does not ask permission;
It takes space,
It rattles the panes,
Sends leaves spiralling,
Shakes the earth itself.

One moment, it sings—
A keening, haunting song
That pulls at the soul,
The kind of sound that makes you stop
And wonder if the wind remembers
Something you’ve forgotten.

The next, it is fury incarnate,
Ripping through, unrelenting,
Stripping away the pretence of calm,
Leaving only truth in its wake.

The wind is chaos,
But it is not mindless.
It is a force of reckoning,
Of transformation,
Of movement.

Storm’s Call

Wind howls through the dark,
Rain dances, a fierce lover—
Chaos breathes in me.

After the Storm

Rain-soaked earth whispers,
The calm holds its breath for me—
Stillness bends, unbowed.

A Windborne Invitation

If the wind seeks an audience,
Step outside.
Feel its cold fingers on your skin,
Its push and pull against your chest.

Let it tear through your hair,
Through the walls you’ve built around yourself.
Let it carry away the weight you cannot name,
The thoughts you cannot silence.

Whisper to it the secrets you’ve hidden,
The ones too heavy to keep.
The wind listens,
Not with sympathy,
But with the kind of understanding
That only comes from being untamed.

Breathe it in,
Let it fill your lungs,
Let it stir the embers inside you.
The wind is here to move you,
To shake you loose
From where you’ve been stuck.

The Call to Arms

The wind screams through the night,
Not a whisper but a battle cry,
A force that shakes the bones
And stirs the soul to action.

It is not gentle;
It tears, it pulls, it demands.
Stand up, it howls.
Do not kneel.
Do not cower.
Rise.

The rain lashes against the earth,
Each drop a drumbeat of defiance,
Each gust of wind a challenge
To the stagnant, to the silent.

And in the fury of the gale,
The crows take flight,
Feathers black against the silver storm,
Spiralling skyward like smoke.

The Phantom Queen is here.
Her voice carries on the wind,
A keening wail,
A cry of battle,
A promise of change.

You feel it in your chest,
In your blood,
That unrelenting power—
Not just hers, but yours.

Let the wind be your ally.
Let the rain cleanse your doubt.
Let the crows carry your fury
To the heavens and beyond.

This is your moment.
Stand tall, let your voice ring out.
The storm is yours to command,
And with it, the Phantom Queen walks beside you.

I Am the Storm

I am the storm.
The wind is my breath,
The rain my tears of rage and renewal.
The earth shakes with my steps.

Let the storm rage.
Let the crows spiral.
Let the world hear:
We are here.
We rise.
We are unbroken.

The Punctuation Circus

Step right up, folks,
to the Greatest Show in Grammar!
Where commas swing on tightropes,
and apostrophes perform daring leaps—
but only when they’re in the right place.

Come see the Comma Splice Contortionist!
She bends sentences until they snap,
because who needs conjunctions
when you can just, keep, adding, commas?

Marvel at the Run-On Sentence Acrobat!
He tumbles through paragraphs,
never pausing for breath,
because why stop when you can
just keep going and going and—oh, he’s fallen.

Behold the Apostrophe Tamer,
wrestling wild possessives,
chasing rogue marks through the air:
“Is it its or it’s?” they cry.
(Spoiler: It’s NOT “it’s.”)

Gasp at the Ellipsis Juggler,
tossing three… no, wait… six…
dear gods… ten dots…
until no one knows where the sentence ends… or begins.

And don’t miss the Semicolon Daredevil,
balancing on the edge of a list,
teetering between
proper usage; and utter chaos.

Out in the ring,
the Periods are protesting:
“We’re the full stop—
the unsung hero! Why don’t we get the applause?”

Meanwhile, the Exclamation Marks
are bouncing off the walls,
shouting, “Look at me! Look at me!!!”
(And no one is looking.)

The Question Marks hover nervously,
asking, “Am I being used correctly?
Is this my moment? Or… am I just overthinking it?”

Backstage, the Hyphen and the Em Dash are fighting again.
“Stay in your lane, Dash!”
“Make me, tiny.”

And in the audience,
the Editor sighs,
clutching her red pen like a sword,
ready to battle the chaos
and tame the unruly mob.

Because this isn’t just a circus—
it’s a war zone.
And only the brave survive
The Punctuation Circus.

🎪 Cue the applause. And maybe a proofreader. 🎪

The Pendulum

In a realm where manuscripts fear the light,
An editor waits, out of sight.
No grasp on grammar, no care for the rules,
Yet somehow they’re here, commanding the tools.

They’ll smile at you, or maybe they won’t,
Communication? Well, they never learned that font.
One email arrives, vague as the mist:
“Fix it. Or don’t. Depends if I’m pissed.”

Mood swings so fierce, you brace for the fall—
One moment they praise, the next, they maul.
Your words, once flowing, now trapped in a maze,
As the editor drifts through their temperamental haze.

“Brilliant!” they shout, eyes gleaming with pride,
But five minutes later, your draft’s thrown aside.
“What is this trash? Rewrite the lot!”
You’re not sure what’s real, or what they forgot.

Their feedback arrives like cryptic commands,
“Make it… better. Less… or more grand?”
You’re left in the dark, lost in despair,
As the editor shrugs, “I just don’t care.”

One day they vanish, no sign, no clue,
Only to send you an article askew.
It’s not your draft, no—it’s far more bizarre,
A piece on cannibalism, mailed to the bar.

Prisoners receive it, much to their dismay,
As you panic and scream, “This isn’t my say!”
You ask the editor, “How did this pass?”
They laugh it off with “Mistakes? They’re a gas.”

Punctuation? Meh, not in their game,
It’s all about vibes, nothing too tame.
Sentences wobble, ideas float away,
But that’s how they like it—chaotic decay.

They’ll vanish for weeks, then send you a note,
“Saw your draft, I think? Not sure what I wrote…”
You ask for a call, a meeting, a chat,
But they reply with “Why bother with that?”

When finally pressed for something clear,
Their message is blunt: “I’m outta here.”
You wonder how they manage the task—
This editor’s life is a surreal mask.

But there they stand, in the spotlight’s gleam,
Swinging through moods like a fever dream.
Your manuscript trembles, caught in their sway,
As they laugh, then frown, and drift away.

The Deadline Dance of the Damned

They set the dates with grandeur and flair,
A timeline precise, hanging in air.
Boldly they promise, “This will be met!”
(Though everyone knows, not a soul will sweat.)

Drafts by Monday! Proofs by the eve!
But come Tuesday morn, they’ve yet to conceive
That authors are ghosts, editors too—
Gone with the wind, and perhaps a bit of booze.

A stack of deadlines, fresh on the pile,
Ignored with a smirk and a wink of guile.
“Ah, the printer’s calling, best pick up the pace!”
Yet writers continue their tortoise-like race.

Emails flood in, all “soon” and “delay,”
Excuses like “life” or “time slipped away.”
The calendar cries in forgotten despair,
While coffee cups brim with cold, stale air.

But the publisher, seasoned, gives no real chase,
For this deadline dance is an annual disgrace.
They laugh in the face of their well-laid plan,
Knowing full well it’ll crash like a can.

So, onward they scribble, a new list they spin,
With dates set to crumble before they begin.
The deadlines march on, an unheeded doom,
As chaos and art make space in the gloom.

Ringmaster of the Shit Show

Step right up, come take a seat,
The circus of chaos is hard to beat.
I’m the ringmaster, in charge of this mess,
Wrangling disasters, and oh—what a stress!

The commas are drunk, they’ve gone for a spin,
The semicolons? Don’t even begin.
Apostrophes riot, they’ve formed a new clique,
And the exclamation marks are acting like dicks.

The run-ons are rampant, they never will stop,
While periods scream, “For the love of god, drop!”
The ellipses are sulking, all moody and vague,
And the hyphens are fuming—oh great, now a plague.

“Who’s in charge?” they all cry, as the chaos unfolds.
“Me, you fuckers!” I yell, as my patience corrodes.
I crack my whip, but they laugh in my face,
This punctuation shit show is a disgrace.

But still, I persist, as the shit storm flies,
With red pen in hand, wiping tears from my eyes.
Because someone must tame this grammatical curse,
So, fuck it—let’s edit this whole fucking verse.

🎪 End scene. Send wine. 🍷

The Help File of Hopelessness

You seek the answer, in desperate need,
But what you find is not what you heed.
A link to the help file, bold and bright,
Promising clarity in your murky plight.

You click with hope, your heart in a race,
But it slaps you back, straight to your face.
“Did you mean this?” it coldly inquires—
A maze of nonsense, your patience expires.

Step-by-step, it should guide you through,
But each vague solution’s a cryptic clue.
The jargon’s thick, the language obscure—
Your problem? Ignored. Of that you’re sure.

“Reboot and refresh, that always should work!”
The help file grins with a technical smirk.
But no matter how often you power it down,
Your issue remains, like a mocking clown.

The scroll bar’s endless, the frustration real,
With advice that reads like a cruel ordeal.
“Have you tried turning it off, my friend?”
Sure, let’s see if that helps in the end.

But answers? Ha! They live in a dream,
While you, dear user, quietly scream.
For the help file’s a portal to nowhere at all,
A rabbit hole where your brain cells crawl.

So you close it down with a heavy sigh,
Left to figure it out with a weary eye.
The help file laughs in its pixelated lair—
Your suffering was always its favourite affair.

The Copyright Catastrophe

Oh, sweet gods of law, give me the strength,
To deal with these thieves who go to such lengths.
Stealing my words, my work, my creation—
Igniting my fuck-you litigation frustration.

“Fair use,” they cry, “It’s just a small tweak!”
Well, mate, your small tweak is making me shriek.
You’ve copied my soul, my blood, and my sweat,
But don’t worry, darling—you ain’t seen rage yet.

I’ll summon the lawyers, the banshees, the hounds,
I’ll drown you in paperwork, pounds upon pounds.
A tidal wave of cease-and-desists,
Oh look, you’re drowning—how tragic, tsk-tsk.

“But I didn’t know!” they whimper and plea,
As if ignorance makes them fucking guilt-free.
“Art should be free!” Oh, piss off, you twat,
My work ain’t a buffet—you’re not having that.

You didn’t write it, you didn’t create,
You took it, you used it, now accept your fate.
Because while I’ll forgive a creative admirer,
A thief is a thief—and I’m fucking on fire.

So here’s my decree, carved in flames on the wall:
Steal from me once, and I’ll scorch it all.
Copyright rage is my unholy song,
And, oh, you poor bastard—you’ve danced along.

🔥 Signed, The Wrathful Author 🔥

The Editorial Rollercoaster

In the land of commas and semicolon screams,
There rules an editor with impossible dreams.
Punctuation? An afterthought, if it’s there at all—
Grammar? A myth she lets quietly fall.

One day she’s happy, with praise she will shower:
“Brilliant! Exceptional! You’re truly in power!”
But the next day comes with a storm in her eyes,
As every comma earns your demise.

“This dash is offensive, this period obscene!”
She hurls at your draft with a face painted mean.
Your sentences quiver, your structure undone,
As she swings from rage to saying, “This one’s fun!”

A misplaced apostrophe? She’ll let it slide—
Today’s a good day; there’s peace in the tide.
But just wait ‘til the morrow, when moods start to shift,
And suddenly your paragraphs need a good lift.

One draft she’ll mark with a colossal red pen,
The next she forgets it and giggles again.
Her edits are riddles, her feedback a game—
Each correction made feels more like a flame.

Your Oxford comma? How dare you defy!
Yet suddenly she winks, says, “I let it slide by.”
Periods disappear, commas move like a dance,
Your poor manuscript never stood a chance.

So you watch in awe as she swings and she sways,
In this editorial tempest of impossible ways.
One minute, your work’s a masterpiece rare,
The next, it’s trash that needs urgent repair.

But when all is done, when she’s had her wild whirl,
She tosses it back with a dizzying twirl:
“It’s perfect, don’t change a single thing!”
And off she skips, her mood on the wing.

Punctuation Circus (A Haiku Chain)

Commas swing so high,
Pausing where they shouldn’t land—
Chaos in the air.

Ellipses whisper…
Trailing thoughts into the void…
Where does it all end?

The apostrophes
Fight over who owns the line—
Possessive by force.

Semicolons smirk,
Bridging chaos gracefully;
Half a stop, they laugh.

Run-ons take the stage,
Never breaking, gasping, or…
Oops. There they go.

The exclamation
Leaps with flair and shouts, “Behold!”
(Overused again.)

Periods protest,
Anchoring the frantic show—
Full stop to madness.

The dash cuts across,
Interrupting everything.
What a diva move.

And the question mark,
Bows in doubt, then looks around:
“Am I needed here?”

Through the ring they dance,
Grammar’s wild, unruly troupe—
Send in the editor.

The Pyre of the Dawn

The publisher sits in their chair of grace,
A smile so calm, a delicate face.
But beneath the surface, a storm does brew—
An inferno sparked by the editorial crew.

At first, they tried—oh yes, they did,
To hold it together, keep chaos hid.
But the emails came, each one more unclear,
“What’s the deadline? Who’s working here?”

One article on faeries, the next on despair,
Sent with no context—who even cares?
Replies half-formed, as if words were a joke,
The publisher’s patience? Starting to choke.

They smile in meetings, a porcelain shell,
But inside, it’s a spiral to Hell.
Each missed deadline, each careless mistake,
Pulls them closer to the edge of the break.

“Did you read this draft?” they ask with a grin,
The team shrugs, “Eh, we’ll fix it in the bin.”
No professionalism, no structure, no plan—
Just a publisher’s rage at this ridiculous sham.

Behind closed doors, they pace and they seethe,
Breath catching fire with every heave.
No longer content to let this slide—
Their inner demon refuses to hide.

A Jekyll and Hyde, they morph with ease,
From pleasant to twisted with alarming speed.
Each email unanswered, each misplaced note,
Adds to the matchbook tucked in their coat.

Then one dark night, the smile fades away,
As Hyde steps forward, ready to play.
The matches are struck with a flick and a hiss,
And the dawn descends with a rhyming kiss.

The printers are burning, the offices too,
Smoke curling high as chaos breaks through.
The publisher watches, a demon at last,
As the fires of frustration burn out the past.

No more excuses, no poorly-formed plan,
No vague communication from a mindless clan.
They laugh as they watch the flames lick high—
“There’s rhyme but no reason!” The team loudly cry.

But by morning’s light, the shell will return,
A smile intact, as the world still burns.
No one suspects the inferno inside,
For Jekyll’s back, but Hyde never died.

So, It’s Come to My Attention You Don’t Like Me

So, it’s come to me attention you don’t like me,
Well, sweetheart, let me set your petty mind free.
You’ve thrown your shade, your whispers, your sneers,
But guess what? I’ve been thriving for years.

Your problem with me? Oh, it’s crystal clear—
You fear the sharp tongue and the no-fucks vibe here.
I’m not for the meek, the jealous, or bland,
I’m the storm you can’t weather, the truth you can’t stand.

You don’t like my tone? Oh, darling, how sad,
Shall I fake a smile just to make you feel glad?
Shall I tone myself down, be softer, more sweet?
Fuck that, my edges are mine to keep.

Your dislike fuels me—it’s power, it’s fuel,
I’ll turn your gossip into my golden rule.
Because while you’re stuck hating and dragging my name,
I’m writing my legacy, playing the game.

So cheers to your tantrum, your passive-aggression,
It’s clear I’ve inspired quite the obsession.
You don’t like me? That’s perfectly fine—
Your dislike is your problem, not mine.

Bitch, You’re a Fan!

Oh, bitch, you’re a fan—don’t try to deny it,
You’ve memorised my moves, you’re dying to try it.
My name’s on your lips more than your own damn prayers,
You hate me so much, yet you’re always there.

Lurking in shadows, stalking my posts,
Like a ghost in the comments, you haunt me the most.
Your eyes light up when I stumble or fall,
But guess what, darling? I rise through it all.

You copy my style, my words, my flair,
But call me out? Oh no, you wouldn’t dare.
It’s funny, really, how hard you obsess,
Watching my life while you’re stuck in your mess.

Your hate is a cloak, but the truth is plain—
You wish you had half my fire, my reign.
You’re not an enemy, a rival, or threat,
You’re a closet admirer who hasn’t confessed yet.

So own it, honey—don’t bother to hide,
Your fixation on me is eating you alive.
If you’re gonna watch me, at least grab some popcorn,
Bitch, you’re a fan—be proud, not forlorn.

🔥 Thanks for the views. Now, do better. 🔥

Good God, When Will the BS End?

Good God, when will the bullshit stop?
It’s piled so high, it’s about to pop.
Every day, a new catastrophe,
Another round of What the actual fuckery?

Emails ping with passive-aggression,
Fake smiles hiding deeper obsessions.
“Oh, no problem!” they sweetly say,
Then stab your back in the usual way.

Meetings full of jargon and fluff,
Pretending their nonsense is important stuff.
Buzzwords flying, egos inflated,
Meanwhile, deadlines are fucking decimated.

Social media? A carnival of clowns,
Endless scrolls of drama, takedowns.
“Cancel this! Defend that!” the mob cries loud,
A toxic storm wrapped up in a crowd.

And don’t get me started on small talk hell,
“How’s the weather?”—oh, Karen, do tell.
I don’t care if it’s raining or fine,
Just pour me a drink and get to the wine.

The BS spreads, it never fails,
From clueless bosses to spam emails.
It’s endless noise, a chaotic blend—
For the love of gods, WHEN WILL IT END?!

But no, we carry on, somehow,
Dodging crap with a furrowed brow.
Gripping sanity like a frayed thread,
And shouting at the universe, “Sort it out, you absolute dickhead!”

So here’s my plea, to gods or fate:
Stop the BS before it’s too late.
But if it must linger, at least send gin,
Because fighting this crap is a battle I’ll win.

🔥 Cheers to survival, you magnificent bastards. 🔥

© The Wayward Witch / Pixie Galvin-Wilde, 2024.
This work is protected under copyright law. No sneaky snatching, unauthorised borrowing, or outright thievery allowed. If you’d like to use something, be a decent human and ask for permission.
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