Poetry Rise began as a community. It still is. But its original function leaned heavily on the ability to build social platforms and grow followings. That skill remains. What has changed is the mission.

We are no longer simply helping poets rise within an algorithm.

We are helping the forest reclaim the land.

That forest is made of Poet Trees.

The Poet Tree is a condensed poetry website/marketplace/community that is a soon to officially launch platform built to provide poets and poetry lovers with something our art has rarely had. Structure. Community. Marketplace. Measurable value. A space where poems can be sold, collected, protected, and honored. A place where poetry is not just admired but sustained.

We believe poetry evolves when poets are able to survive.

Money speaks loudly in this world. Too loudly. That is not a political statement. It is an observable one. Admiration, likes, and shares carry energy. They matter. But they do not put food in a bowl. They do not fund a surgery. They do not allow an artist to choose art over survival.

Poetry deserves more than becoming a popular Instagram aesthetic where even the largest accounts, ours included, can slip into shareable quotes polished to perfection yet lacking the depth, fracture, and human imperfection that make poetry sacred.

The Poet Tree exists to change that trajectory.

PoetryRise and its sister platforms will help funnel attention toward the ecosystem. Substack is where I speak plainly, not as a page but as a person.

I needed a platform that could hold my story.

The scars.
The wounds.
The imperfections.

A place where I can also speak as a founder, transparently, about how this company is being built. You will hear about our structure. You will learn how we will integrate cryptocurrency. You will understand how poems will be protected as NFTs. You will see the education, the missteps, the breakthroughs. Nothing hidden behind branding.

No one becomes a poet to become rich.

To me, rich would simply mean being able to afford my dog’s surgery. At this moment, I cannot.

That is not a plea. It is perspective.

If you stay with me, whether for the stories, the testimony, or the building of this platform, I promise you sincerity. I promise you clarity. I promise you that this will not be smoke.

For poets who want to help reclaim the land, who are interested in monetizing their work and growing their name, you will receive first insight here. Paid subscribers will receive early access to contests, launches, prompts, and the many ways we intend to keep this ecosystem alive and thriving.

Understand this. The Poet Tree will grow beyond poetry alone. Songwriters. Lyricists. Spoken word artists. Anyone whose art lives in language will find soil here.

There is something powerful about planting early.

Until then, I am here.

Open.
Grateful.
Building.

I shine when you shine. Mirrors reflecting mirrors. The first seeds of The Poet Tree will become a legacy, and you will be here as I share the deepest parts of my story, the education behind the platform, and the unfolding of something I believe is necessary.

The future feels bright because it is being built with intention.

Compassionately and authentically composed,

Ash:Is

www.thepoettree.art

Warning: You Will Witness My Completely Crack Open and Meet My Grief… a space I've created a Fortress Around - Built From Pieces of My Shattered Heart. The Adhesive is Called Pain… The Drive to Do So? The Dried Blood Stain the Nurses Missed That I Grasped at Until It Became The FortressProtecting The Pain I Never Got to Grieve.

Yesterday morning; The greatest Show on earth was caught mid poetic testimony; it's incredible to know like it's still get there… it's incredible how good it feels to touch my grief.

After Mom had a bullet hole go through her collapsing in my arms, there was a lot of blood to clean…. Seems one spot remained missed… Palm wrist. I gripped and it became its own will of survival… confusingly…. Keeping me from healing. Through grieving.

Here's the script I wrote:

Body That Never Got to Grieve

Zero years and you were near,

not the way I needed you,

not as love,

but as something else that took its place

because something had to.

I’m not saying you left.

I’m saying the pain arrived first

and stayed longer.

Fourteen to eighteen

while my brain was still becoming a home,

Mom gone,

Grandma Emma drowning in the loss of three children

and a husband,

Uncle’s chaos echoing off the walls,

a town that called survival faith

or medication

and nothing in between.

I am not a victim.

I am not a victim.

But was I not neglected, Mom.

This town somehow felt safe to you.

You knew if you had stayed,

most of us would have left.

I cry wondering

what you thought I might become.

Maybe some part of you still guards me

my gifted curse,

my cursed gift,

my noticing.

Once tender,

it needed to thicken, yes,

but it never needed teeth.

You don’t know

how unstable it was

to have my mind develop in that house,

inside those walls.

Poor Emma, watching death stack its receipts,

left with this last child she smothered

into manic submission

and then me,

tasked with holding everyone’s memory

at fifteen,

still wiping your blood

from my arm.

March must be coming.

I remember this season.

Thirty years ago you reached for freedom

and I fucking knew

catastrophe was the only ending available.

I knew.

It wasn’t going to end well.

But you had to try.

I don’t blame you.

This is not about him.

This is about you and me.

Grief is not a thought.

It is an energy

I was never taught how to release.

So it stayed in my body,

learned my nervous system,

found cannabis, found escape,

found the only thing that ever made me feel okay

while I was still wiring myself.

I ran when I felt better.

I ran when healing came close.

Because letting go felt like betrayal

of the boy who survived without it.

I measure distance in the dark.

I held you so long

I mistook pain for presence.

By the time I realized I was gripping an illusion,

it had grown teeth,

taken sacred space,

taught me how to eat away at love

before it could leave.

Either it has limits

or your love is infinite.

I don’t know which.

I only know the fight is exhausting.

I am one piece

of a billion broken pieces,

spaces between them filled with emptiness

I could have filled with your love

if I didn’t still carry your blood

on my palm.

I don’t gasp anymore.

I grip.

Fight was necessary when flight wasn’t possible.

But I want to fly now.

I want you to fly now.

I am trying to let the grief move.

I am trying to stay open.

I am crying.

Even if it began as a tremble.

My wings are tired.

But they are still here.

Trust me. This Push is Not The End of Content Beyond Letting You Know Where the Future of Poetry and Poet’s Belong…

Nothing will ever eclipse
the scent of soft vanilla
rising from a page
that once asked a hand
to press intention into pulp.

Ink bled because a heart insisted.
Margins held confessions.
Spines remembered.

Poetry has always required a body.

Now we turn

to the quiet percussion
of fingertips
summoning language
across illuminated glass.

Symbols travel faster than breath.
Distance collapses.
A line written in solitude
arrives continents away
before doubt can edit it.

This is not betrayal.
It is evolution.

The page carried memory in its fibers.
The screen carries reach in its circuitry.

Both are vessels.

But something falters
when poems are fed
to the infinite scroll
and returned as metrics.

A heart fracture
measured in likes.
A revelation
flattened into engagement.

Poets are not content.

They are originators of signal.
Architects of ache.
Keepers of cadence.

And craft requires protection.

Not from readers—
but from erasure, dilution,
from the endless replication
that forgets who first bled.

So we lean forward.

Beyond platforms that borrow our voices
and sell them back as visibility.

Into structures that remember provenance.
Into certificates that anchor authorship.
Into tokens that testify
this line
this breath
this fragment of soul
belongs to someone.

Ink has transmuted to code.
Not to cheapen the poem—
but to guard it.

Encoded scarcity.
Recorded origin.
Direct exchange.

No middle applause.
No algorithmic favor.

A poet writes.
A collector receives.
The current moves clean.

This is not about saving trees.
It is about saving poets
from invisibility.

It is about compensation
for courage.

About building systems
where language is not merely displayed
but owned,
not merely shared
but sustained.

We do not abandon the book.
We expand the binding.

We become stewards
of our own distribution.

We plant not forests of paper—
but networks of permanence.

Poet Trees, yes.
But not metaphor alone.

Roots in blockchain.
Branches in culture.
Leaves whispering provenance
in every transaction.

If poetry is flame
then let us build the lantern.

If poetry is currency of the soul
let it finally hold value.

Come.

Configure your wallet.
Anchor your authorship.
Mint your vulnerability.

Let the poem live
beyond the scroll.

Let it be collectible.
Protected.
Paid.

This is the moment
when craft meets infrastructure.

The gates are opening.

Not to escape tradition—
but to secure it.

Soon
a place where poets endure.

Soon
a place where words are sovereign.

Soon
a marketplace
for the sacred exchange
of breath into permanence.

- Ash:Is

• Film 1: “A Bandwidth Ghost”

- My First Ever Attempt at Creating This Collage of Mediums.

- My Battery in Life is at 4%, hear the grunt of frustration... watch the spaces between.

‘A Bandwidth Ghost’ - Film 1

This Short Film/Video edit was made in bed staring at 6am. It took 2 hours to finally dive in and give these layers of mediums a spin… .

Premise is a quick snap capture of my hustle and fading Bandwidth as I deal with my loneliness, facing my grief and navigating the title of a CEO living all alone …. Not a friend that is human for hundreds and hundreds of miles.

Listen for the stress grunts layered after every typewriter flip… the clips in between are finished products, and what I do with time off (hang with my only friend - Sir Rio Quarantino ) my stunning and loving 6year old surely Aussie/Mix…. You will meet him soon.

• ∆∆ Spoiler ∆∆

The ending is emo… but it was honest at the time I made it so I will leave it… .

Please take a minute with sound on to immerse yourself in the swell of Ash:Is hustle… band the pressure and struggle within.

Any Support and Feedback is appreciated.

#poetic #shortFilm

Leave a comment

- By Ryan Ashley “Ash:Is"

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** LISTEN ALONG **

Ash:Is To Ashes: the pressure…oh,

Massive and mostly formed

Among High Tide Storms,

Golden Spiral Spinal pain.

Here comes the story of a ....

The Stories In My Head divided by

All Yesterday’s Dead...

I said too much, too little,

Not Enough, Why can’t I shut myself up. ....

Oh and what is this clock strike

Right at yawns deserving there plight,

You grow strongest amongst the quiet night...

I think I get it,

You know you are the shadow

With a undying speck of light

And maybe you just want to be seen,

So often I’d rather put up a fight,

But that is also to your delight,

Highjoff every day - losing

Is the fusion potion poured Into

A bright, brittle Challis

You ironically formed

From the gold that was made

From The Pressure amongst

Ash:Is Victim Identify,

Poor Child...

Endless flashes of Ways to Relate

Every Moment That passes,

As an enemy of the state of confusion

…….There has to be a better way

For you to Spark,

Illusions from the dark,

An Arc Of Alone

A Philosopher’s stone

Gathers all the moss

So it can flex intuition as resentment

In order to assert it’s domiance

Of who’s more prominent I

n the world of “Common Sense”

Objective Champ

Subjective Disaster

Ash:Is to Ashes

I will meet you when I finally cry so hard

It meets the other-side at laughter.

Afterthought seize...

Easy my little pal,

I promise you attention

If you can somehow,

Settle the karmic storm of WhatTheFuck

From Always Showing Up

While you take your bow,

As to keep us low to the ground

I whimper at how you never cover your face,

…You only protect your crown.

Victim Royal,

Loyal to Protections Untethered,

Yet you would simply say,

Life is better - if life is never better.

….Easy Child, Jah whispers

I promise you:

We won’t ever forget her....

Stillness Arrives

I turn the key further,

Crack The Door

So light may arrive

From these gestures

From Ash:Is

Where Love Will Rise.

Support My Poetic Healing Journey and Subscribe - Discount Code

Ash:Is

”The Fire of Before - Now The Phoenix Trying to Rise”

Your lips were built from flame
small reminders of ruin.

Every moment of you
enchanted me on purpose:
                  elegant, dangerous,
                        the kind of beauty that knows it will be forgiven.

I must have stepped under something.
A spell. 
A sentence. 
A curse…..fuck.

        Every poem I tried came out wrong,
      as if language itself
had tilted.

Every galaxy cell in my body knew
this was not a moment.
This was a hinge.
Life would not swing back.
             It can only end, 
             After it begins.

You let me in.

Under your skin.

Candles flickered like they were listening.
Time held its breath
and forgot to exhale.

You slept the
           last few hours
                       that the stars would be ours.

                       Head on my chest,
              a hummingbird reckless with trust,
      having flown too close to those stars
that refuse to rush.

Still,
The flames met their ending.
I did not survive unchanged.

Morning arrived without apology.
Last night’s candle wax said everything
without assigning blame.
I only saw negative space
Knowing I would never be the same.

   It was her magic,
     That was only capable
         of melting my heart with venom kiss
               poisoning me with a cure, 
                       Venom I came to miss.

                 I begged the stars, quietly,
                 like a fool who still believes in bargains:
                 please be a candle that never burns out.

They offered no such mercy.
…
Only this
all flames will finish.
And later, without her,
you will decide
what the venom was for.
Wax does not accuse.
Neither did she.
The poison was mine to name:
pain or medicine… I wonder,
 what was the disease?

It was both.
The first bite
was exquisite.
The realization of her purpose
arrived long after I strike a flame…
slow, expensive, permanent…
Sometimes pain is a cure,
Blame is a curse.

That night’s candle wax still whispers:
Which one would be worse? 

Never Knowing
Her lips
honeyed, lethal, made of lost dreams?
Or her poison 
Never finding its way
Under your skin?

The wax remembers:
It whispers as loud as I miss her:
              “alchemize this into cure
                      or remain a candle 
                              never to have a chance
                                    to know how a star shall dance.

I have never lit a candle.
In the darkness, Yet I can still see.

I chose the poison.
This is the only  way 
I actually believe
that some 
Velvet 
Midnight 
Black 
Magic 
Force,

…….Once melted for me.

I will feel your venom
Up until my last breath
Alchemized away from any regret…

As I know

That last night’s candle wax
will never let me forget.

That while the stars continue to burn,
As do I,
For her.

- Poetry Rise (Ash:Is)

Subscribe now

+ + + 

“Go there,” she would whisper.

And there he was.

A small boy marooned in the back chamber of my own chest,
curled behind a door I built from subconscious bricks
and the practiced architecture of strength.

I heard him for years.
Thin knocking in the ribs.
I called it anxiety.
I called it distraction.
I called it ambition, exhaustion, temperament—
anything but his name.

It was me.

The version I set down in the tall grass
because surviving felt more urgent than listening.
Because small towns remember everything.
Because grief that young
does not come with instructions.

He did not want spectacle.
No apology parade.
No heroic return.

Just for the man I became
to kneel.

Tender, tender—
like approaching a wounded animal
that has only known weather and war.

So I entered.

Softly.
Almost shy.

“Hi,” I said.
Hello my heart.
Hello hurt me.
I love you.

My voice trembled
like it was relearning gravity.

The room was thick with air that had never been exhaled.
Uncried tears hung there
like dust in late afternoon light.

He looked at me
as if I had come home from a trip
no one explained to him.

I opened my arms.

He did not hesitate.

When he leapt into me
every postponed cry broke rank.
Every night I swallowed confusion
like it was medicine
rose up, unsupervised.

For a moment
we were not fracture and façade.

Not boy and man pretending.

We were one breath.
One ache.
One trembling animal learning it was safe.

Loneliness loosened its fingers.

The suffering that had sat stagnant
...began to move

like a river remembering downhill.
gravity letting me down with emotional cascades...

Haunting thrills

In the center of my chest
where I once stored silence
we wept.

And something ancient
unclenched. I knew it...

I had always had the key,
I just never could find the lock.

That was the moment I understood:

healing does not arrive as light.
It does not trumpet.

It begins in the dark
when you sit down beside yourself
and say....

I am here.

And I am not leaving you again.

- Poetry Rise from Ash:Is

This is A True Story - Poetically Unraveled By The New Voice of Poetry Rise - “Ash:Is”

…( A Proper Introduction Coming Soon )

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PLEASE NOTE: THE PoetryRise IG as of last week was stolen from The Poet Tree LLC by one of it’s former owners/my partner . More on that soon… but for now, lets PoetTree Rise, instead of PoetryDies with Ai Quotes.

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I do not know about you, but winter always slows my creative soil.

It is not that the well runs dry. It is that the water sinks deeper underground where it cannot be rushed. My words move differently in those months. Quieter. Slower. As if the page itself is asking for patience.

For a long time I thought that meant something was wrong.

But nature never apologizes for winter.

It rests. It gathers. It lets the roots do their invisible work beneath frozen ground.

And sometimes what looks like dormancy is simply preparation.

This year especially, I have been reminded that seasons change whether we plan for them or not. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes in ways that ask us to stand a little taller than we expected.

So here are some personal prompts that feels write* to turn the page toward spring.

The season where buried things remember their strength.

The season where truth tends to rise through the soil whether anyone planted it or not.

Here are five spring prompts to wake the creative roots.

• Write about something in your life that has been growing quietly beneath the surface. Something that others may not yet see but that you can feel preparing to rise.

• Describe a moment of renewal using only imagery of growth. Budding branches. Wet soil. Early light. The sound of something returning to life.

• Write about something you protected during the colder seasons. A belief. A dream. A piece of yourself that you refused to let the frost claim.

• Begin a piece with the line
  “Somewhere beneath the soil, something decided it was time.”

• Write a short poem about emergence. What breaks through when the ground finally softens.

If something beautiful surfaces for you, share a line or image below.

Spring has a way of revealing what winter was quietly preparing all along.If any of this resonated, sharing is a great way to support Poetry Rise!

With the year coming to a close in T-minus 13 hours (here in EST anyway) and many of us rushing around to tie up any last loose ends before we don the sparkly outfit and head off into the hopeful night, this time of year can feel like a checklist rather than a threshold.

Before the clock strikes, we’re already thinking about the idea of “new year, new me” and all the things we want to accomplish in the coming year, especially when it comes to our writing: which publications we want to submit to, the goals we want to set for our work, which project we’ll set our sights on next. Seldom do we take the time to look back on (and truly appreciate) the year we’ve just finished, as told through our writing journeys.

Put the future aside for the rest of today and instead, take a look back on things you wrote over the course of the year.

If that was 125 poems, 30 short stories and a novella — amazing!! If that was 8 poems and a half-finished essay — amazing!! Whatever you wrote this year, don’t diminish it — especially, especially, especially (have I said that enough?) if you submitted something somewhere and got rejected or posted vulnerably to the tune of two emoji hearts, because we’re not focusing on quantity or supposed “success.” We’re homing in on the sheer fact that you wrote anything at all.

Cue the choir of angels!

Numbers and acceptance letters are ultimately irrelevant. I don’t care if the editor-in-chief herself of the upcoming spring issue of The Whatever Review or Some Supposed Prestigious Publication said your work was “shit” or the next Angelou, Atwood or Allende.

No one else’s opinion matters here because true success is not attained through the praise, validation or recognition from others. It’s Ocean’s Eleven — it is very much an inside job.

What I want you to ask yourself before midnight is this one simple question: “Do I love what I wrote this year?”

Just as we flip through our camera rolls or our own social media feeds to scroll the past, we can do the same with our writing.

Like photos, our writing offers snapshots. Go back and take a look through what you wrote over the course of the year.

Were there any overarching themes or a connecting through-line? What topics were you exploring? Did you let something go, let something in, or both? Are you proud of what you’ve written?

The point here is to shift from external validation to internal affirmation. Your worth does not hinge on anyone else’s judgement of your work, and this goes beyond submissions and potential rejections. This extends to any public place (especially online) where you put yourself out there.

No likes, four likes or four thousand likes — all of it is total bullshit. Smoke and mirrors. Houdini-level illusions. POOF!

If you took a risk this year and dared to write at all, that’s a massive win. And if you like — nay, love — what you made, that is the biggest win there is. That’s success.

There goes that angelic choir again (this time with breakdancing)!

Let’s celebrate the close of 2025 and send it off in style the way writers do best: with the fanfare and fireworks of our brightest language.

What is your favorite thing you wrote this year? If it’s a poem, let’s read it! Even better, if it’s something you love that got rejected, let’s champion it! If you published a book...well, maybe share just a short excerpt from it.

Share in the comments below and keep it short and to-the-point (this is the internet after all; many of us still seem to struggle with longform content) but definitely share!

Snippets, excerpts, one mic-drop quote or a short poem — tell us what you loved most about your writing journey this year and close the door on 2025 as we rocket toward the bright and shiny stars of another year of writing!

This post is partly behind a paywall.

The portion you can read for free is meant to give you a clear sense of the ideas, insights, and depth I bring to my work. The full post contains the complete exploration, examples, and actionable guidance, crafted with time, energy, and intention. If you find the free portion valuable and want the full experience, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to access the complete content and support this work.

The romanticizing of suffering has long been used as creative fuel and given rise to the “tortured artist” trope, an idea unconsciously tethering artists to struggle, addiction or self-sabotage. Suffering for art is optional but so much of history has illustrated it as a requirement when the truth is that very thing, truth in and of itself, is the real invitation.

Sometimes that truth spills from a bottle because it’s a quick and easy way to access the parts we are otherwise unwilling to look at, but it’s entirely possible to create the same level of work (if not better!) from a place of love rather than suffering, and I personally have found love to be the most expansive and powerful of muses, far more than pain.

No tortured poets here—only inquisitive and expressive ones.

This idea has long been romanticized in many books and movies, often presented in a way that conflates pain as inseparable from (or even necessary for) creative genius (think: the angsty, misunderstood and brooding artist who can only produce when in a state of suffering or facing darkness like addiction or depression).

History is rife with examples of individuals who suffered great pain but turned it into beautiful creations: Vincent van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Hemingway. Hollywood (by which I mean the film and music industry) has been especially cursed since the beginning with numerous artists who suffered through their art: Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, and so the list goes on.

While this does exemplify the alchemy of pain into beauty and is a very real human trait, what I want to convey today is that it is only one pathway to creativity. Pain doesn’t have to be a precursor to art. We need only learn to notice and amplify existing beauty, awe, curiosity and joy and make those the fuel and default for creation.

Beyond the paywall, today’s article will:

• Deconstruct the archetype of the tortured artist

• Discuss the psychology of the limiting beliefs surrounding it

• Explain why love & emotions under that umbrella are more sustainable as a muse

• Offer personal narrative, opinion and insight from my own lived experience of creating for years from depression

• Touch on how pain and love can co-exist with balance

• Suggest actionable steps and exercises to shift to creating from a place of curiosity and wonder

• Offer encouragement and words of wisdom for those currently experiencing pain and suffering

• Include several personal photos as examples of my art and self expression

Want to check it out? You can subscribe below to get access to the deep-dive (& expect more future quality content like this when you upgrade to a paid subscription, which helps keep Poetry Rise going, thanks to your support!).

Subscribe now

Before I dive in further, let’s first define what the “tortured artist” is.

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Sometimes that’s true. More often, it’s not. Because marketing doesn’t create value.
It amplifies it. And amplification is unforgiving.

Marketing Is a Magnifying Glass

Marketing is not a rescue operation for weak work. It’s a magnifying glass held up to whatever already exists.

If the writing is strong, even small distribution can carry it surprisingly far.
If the writing is weak, aggressive marketing doesn’t help—it exposes the weakness faster.

This is why over-marketing bad writing doesn’t just fail. It damages trust and erodes your brand.

Readers are generous, but they are not confused. They know when something moves them—and when it doesn’t.

Zero Marketing Still Means Zero Surface Area

None of this means writers should hide forever.

If you don’t post, submit, share, or publish anywhere, nothing happens. Great writing locked in a drawer doesn’t build readers, relationships, or momentum.

Like most things in life, the truth lives somewhere in the middle:

• No craft → marketing fails

• No marketing → nothing travels

The question isn’t whether to market. It’s when and how much.

The Real Threshold Most Writers Miss

There is a threshold most writers intuitively feel but struggle to articulate.

Below it:

• The work feels unfinished

• Feedback is thin or polite

• Engagement is mostly silent

Above it:

• Something happens

• A follow

• A message

• A share

• A quiet “this meant something to me”

Resonance leaves fingerprints. It doesn’t need to be loud. It just needs to be undeniable.

Craft Creates Quiet Confidence

Writers who have done the work don’t need permission to share. This isn’t arrogance. It’s skill, training, and preparation.

You see it in elite athletes, performers, chess players—anyone who has trained at their craft deeply. They don’t wonder if they’re ready. They know they’ve put in the hours.

Writing is no different. That confidence doesn’t come from metrics. It comes from repetition, revision, and dedication.

The Mistake That Slows Everything Down

Many writers try to solve a craft problem with a marketing solution. They post more. They post louder. They post everywhere.

What they actually need is:

• More writing

• Better editing

• More reading

• More patience

Marketing is not the shortcut people want it to be. It is the multiplier you earn after the work starts landing.

This is where most writers stop reading and nod.

Paid subscribers keep going—because this is where it gets practical.

Read more

This isn’t because writers are incapable of learning business or marketing.
It’s because those subjects are often framed as distractions from the work—something vaguely shameful, mechanical, or corrupting.

I don’t believe in that. I believe branding, business, and marketing are creative endeavors—natural extensions of the writing practice itself.

That belief is the foundation of this course.

Subscribe now

What This Course Is (and Is Not)

This is not a promise of virality. It’s not a list of hacks. It’s not hustle culture for artists.

This is a basic business and marketing course for poets, authors, and writers who want to understand how their work travels—and how to sustain a creative life in public.

The focus is clarity, not pressure. Illumination, not urgency.

If you put a little in, you’ll get something useful. If you put a lot in, you’ll build something real.

The Core Philosophy (Preview)

A few principles I’ll return to throughout the course:

• Craft is the gate. Marketing only amplifies what’s already there.

• Resonance—not vanity metrics—is the only honest signal.

• Writing is emotional and cognitive labor. At its best, it becomes human infrastructure.

• Audiences form around patterns, not one-off brilliance.

• Platforms like Substack are instruments. Their role changes as you grow.

• Business and marketing are not separate from the work—they are part of it.

If any of this makes you uncomfortable, that’s okay. This course won’t be for everyone.

Who This Course Is For

This course is for writers who:

• Want readers, not just output

• Are willing to practice their craft

• Understand that consistency matters

• Are open to learning how platforms actually work

• Want to build something slowly and honestly

This course is not for writers looking for shortcuts, instant results, or hacks; however, I’ll absolutely share a few that I’ve found.

How the Course Will Work

I’ll be releasing this course module by module on Substack.

Each module will:

• Be published as a standalone essay

• Include a free section for all subscribers

• Include a paywalled section for paid subscribers with deeper application, systems, and examples

The free sections will always contain real value. The paid sections will go further—into structure, longevity, and leverage.

Course Outline

Module 1 — Craft Is the Gate
Why writing quality matters more than marketing, and how to know when you’re ready to share.

Module 2 — Voice, Pattern, and Trust
How audiences form around consistency without sameness.

Module 3 — Platforms Without Illusions
How social platforms actually work, and why nothing happens overnight.

Module 4 — Consistency Without Burnout
Simple systems that protect creative energy.

Module 5 — Relationship Is the Strategy
Why responding to readers matters more than growth tricks.

Module 6 — Monetization Without Moral Panic
How writers can allow support without shame or pressure.

Module 7 — Longevity & Leverage
Building something that lasts beyond trends and algorithms.

Closing

You don’t need to read every module, and you don’t need to do everything at once.

But if you’ve ever felt like:

• Writing was the only part you enjoy.

• And everything around it felt opaque, exhausting, or pointless.

This course is for you.

Module 1 will be published this coming week.

These poetry challenges are some of my favorites to orchestrate because of what they stand for: collaboration and invitation. They’re at the heart of Poetry Rise and reflect the vast uniqueness of our community.

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A single poetry prompt opens a thousand windows at once—what one poet writes will portray a wildly different story than another, and if there’s anything we love here, it’s storytelling.

Part of the joy of these for me particularly is the creativity they inspire; I love reading what you all come up with, which usually in turn inspires me to write a follow-up post or otherwise reflect on what I’ve read and inevitably, out comes something of my own later on. It’s part of the wonderful cycle that is sharing: you never know what someone else’s words will do. And as writers, isn’t that what we’re here for? To invoke emotion? To encourage critical thinking and reflection? To spark fires?

This week, I want to challenge you to write 5 lines about that very thing with the prompt “5 lines to start a fire.”

What exactly is that fire? I have no idea.

Your fire will be very different from mine. Maybe it’s a piece about passion or maybe it’s protest. Maybe it’s the change you wish you could summon within yourself or the change of the season itself, burning crimson and amber autumn leaves.

Maybe you blew up someone’s life. Maybe someone else blew up yours. Or maybe it’s more literal. Maybe it’s that one time you accidentally (or on purpose?!) set something aflame.

Whatever it is, we want it to move us. We want poems that pack a punch and tell a BIG story in a few small burning lines.

The rules are easy-peasy: 5 lines max and no AI (I don’t think we really need to say that to this crowd, but just in case). Write your fire into five lines and share it below in the comments or on our Note post.

We’ll select the ones that strike us the most and highlight them with individual commentary in a future post (check out our last challenge to see what this featuring process looks like).

Let’s build a bonfire—together!

As I was wandering a bookstore earlier this week, plucking titles from the shelves and marveling at beautiful covers and intriguing plots, I felt a sense of doubt welling up within me. With so many great writers and stories already in existence, I wondered if there was space for myself among them. Would anyone find my work? Would it stand out or resonate? Or would it skitter off into oblivion as if I never existed at all?

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Then I read Linda Carroll’s essay on feeling worthy as a writer that echoed my thoughts in that bookstore and knew I had to explore them. I was surprised to learn so many writers now considered total GOATs (Virgil, Kafka, Byron…) once thought themselves the same nobodies of Emily Dickinson’s famous poem. Many of these writers felt their work wasn’t “good enough” and kept their writing hidden or even requested it be destroyed post-mortem to ensure it would never see the light of day, let alone publication.

What’s interesting is that many of the artists and writers we consider great today didn’t experience success until after death. While some were ahead of their time, others were simply restricted due to a limited mindset. When an artist dies, so too do their limiting beliefs. This frees the work and allows their creations to finally breathe without the weight of the creator’s self-doubt.

But we don’t have to die for our art to finally live; we just need to kill off the limiting beliefs gatekeeping our most expressive—and expansive—selves.

While many experience unworthiness, it seems to be a plague among writers and creatives. It’s a topic I’ve heard expressed at least once, at some point or another, from almost every writer and creative I know, and I used to count myself among them. Until I did the healing work around this belief, I never thought I was “good enough” to even call myself a writer, let alone perform or publish my work.

Even at the local open mic I attend, there have been several talented poets who, when asked if they would ever publish a book, responded aghast and surprised at the question, instantly belittling their own work with responses of not being “good enough” to publish. While I still have moments of self-doubt, I don’t believe I am unworthy of writing success, and you shouldn’t either—there’s enough space for all of us on those bookstore shelves.

Unworthiness is nothing more than the mind’s misguided attempt at protection, stemming from the fear that being seen means being judged or rejected. When writers feel unworthy, the subconscious logic equates staying small and limiting sharing (or not sharing at all) with safety. If we never share, we can’t be rejected or criticized. If we never get rejected or criticized, we won’t experience pain (false, but the mind is really good at making the illogical logical).

The modern writer’s paradox is that of wanting to be seen but feeling unworthy of it, exacerbated by the seemingly inescapable social media comparison game with highlight reels and follower/subscriber counts; by saturation of the literary world itself, with more writers than ever before inhabiting the same space; by the performance pressure that inherently comes with any kind of work—that of wanting to succeed (though we all ought to have a strong definition of what that word means to us individually, beyond money and metrics).

Because we are so plugged in, we can face criticism and rejection at any moment from anyone and everyone. A post could go viral, and it could become critically acclaimed or we could get cancelled in an instant.

With that much pressure and visibility, we’re constantly bombarded with everything everywhere all at once—who’s getting what publishing deals and winning which awards, who got accepted into what literary journal, who just hit 1k, 10k or 100k followers/subscribers/insert BS measure of worth here. When our own growth isn’t as visible or apparent, it stirs up a shitstorm of comparison.

Society’s conditioning tells us that “worth” isn’t in who we are but what we have, be it money, metrics, popularity, accolades or otherwise and these ideas burrow like parasites deep into our mindsets, creating feelings of unworthiness. From that, stem even more made-up “rules” like needing to have a large following in order to achieve success (again, let’s redefine what that word means). Online, our supposed “value” is perpetually measured and constantly changes and recalculates more times than a GPS tells you to make a U-turn. Left unchecked, the continual subconscious reinforcement of those feelings can calcify into beliefs.

As a modern-day Spider Man in the Great (and Pretty Fucking Awful) Social Media Age might say, “With great connectivity, comes great responsibility.”

It falls on us to do the mindset work to transcend the fear and keep writing and sharing anyway, because sharing is the medicine.

Each time we share, we’re proving to our nervous system that’s it’s safe to express ourselves and affirms our own worth. The more we do, the easier it becomes and little by little, we break down the old limiting beliefs and replace them with more expansive ones. We may never rid ourselves entirely of fear or self-doubt, but we can outnumber them over time so that when those negative and limiting beliefs pop up, the wiser ones step in to override them.

As if this article wasn’t long enough, let me make it even longer and sidebar to give a relevant example of what this “overriding” looks like in action.

Something I often do to shift limiting beliefs is redefine and reimagine them. Right before my second book was published, I had some old thoughts and criticism bubble up (no one really prepares you for the internal turmoil that happens before a book is released). I saw myself in my mind’s eye as a starry-eyed excited six-year-old, holding this brand-new book in her hands. She had just created something amazing and was so proud to show it to me.

Then I saw the shadow aspect of myself, the vicious one I lived with in my head for decades. She slapped the book out of little-me’s hand and told her how terrible it was. I heard so many mean things in my head and felt the pain of that moment that I literally hurt my own feelings so bad I cried (please tell me I’m not the only one who’s experienced this?).

Then my compassion stepped in. Wisdom stepped in. A higher perspective stepped in. I knelt down in that visualization to re-parent little-me and affirmed how amazing she is and how special her creations are, how much I love them. Because I equated my creations with the visual of a small child and I truly see them as my children, I haven’t thought a single mean thing about my work since.

I think it’s brave I keep creating, even when some of those creations are rejected or met with silence, but I keep going because my desire for them to just exist is far greater than my desire for recognition or praise. If I died tomorrow, I would want all my drafts to be published, so the idea that there were/are writers out there who would want their work destroyed kind of blows my mind.

Why would anyone want proof of their existence erased?

Through EFT, therapy and safe spaces like open mics and certain online communities, I healed my unworthiness wounds over time. Sharing became a sacred act of self-expression, not self-promotion or validation-seeking. I create and share because I want to positively impact others, as well as express myself, regardless of how my work is received or by how many. Whether it’s 1 or 1 million, I trust that my work will reach those who need it because I dared to share it.

We can sometimes be our own worst critics but if that is true then so is its opposite: we can also become our greatest champions. What if (I love this game)…instead of doubting ourselves and fearing judgement of our work, we started believing in it? Loving it? Sparking dialogue with ourselves in the comments when no one else will (yes, I have done this)?

Even if only one or two people read it, and it helps or connects with them in some way, isn’t that a success? What if the things you say today are what saves someone else from darkness tomorrow? Wouldn’t you want to help someone else with your very unique perspective and the way you weave words together?

It’s like this article. I struggled to write it, not because I didn’t think it worthy of being read but because I had so much to say that the way in which it’s written still feels a bit clunky to me and echoes some of that “is this good enough?” doubt, but that wasn’t going to stop me from sharing; in fact, I think it proves my whole point.

So what if this article isn’t Hemingway? So what if it’s redundant or all over the place? At least it exists. At least it came from my weird litte human brain, and I didn’t use AI to write it for me. At least the ideas now have a chance to land and connect with someone.

I wholeheartedly believe that “done is better than perfect” and expressing and sharing the ideas, thoughts and emotions will always trump structure.

When we share, we dare to be known.

It’s better to have written and shared than to have never shared at all, and you never know who you’re helping when you do.

So if you have beliefs of unworthiness (no matter what it pertains to), let’s flip it on its head with a reframe: Your limiting beliefs are unworthy of you.

You’re too good for them! Don’t let them inhabit the holiness of your being! You deserve better than a small mindset. You deserve to create freely, unbound by self-doubt and imaginary judgement. Writing is not a competition but a contribution and we belong on those bookstore shelves—every one of us.

There has always been enough for us all, and we are more than enough for it.

Once, poetry moved in schools and salons—the Beats read to jazz. The Harlem Renaissance filled rooms thick with smoke and rhythm. Across the ocean, Pablo Neruda spoke to crowds from balconies, and the haiku carried a world inside seventeen syllables.

Every era found its own shape for poetry, and now those shapes are dissolving. Language is more diffuse than ever—not just used in conversation or in books, but on screens through multiple different mediums, like social media, movies, and business documents.

You can see it in advertising slogans that will outlive most poems:

“Just Do It.”
“Think Different.”
“Because You’re Worth It.”

Each one short, rhythmic, complete. Imperatives turned into tiny mantras. A few words and you feel something—poetry’s oldest trick.

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Last night I attended my city’s local open mic, an event I hadn’t been to in a couple months but have regularly attended for 3 years now. When I first started going in early 2022, I was freshly divorced, faithfully committed to my writing dreams, and fully terrified at the idea of reading my work publicly.

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You wouldn’t know it now from my performances, but I used to have quite the aversion to speaking aloud and would often shake while stumbling through my words (I’m amazed my heart didn’t beat itself out of my own chest). Sharing my thoughts and feelings in a group setting, no matter how small, and even in my former relationships, didn’t feel safe and certainly wasn’t something I would volunteer to do. But the page? It has always been a safe—and sacred—space.

For me (and I wager many others), poetry feels like a steady hand we hold as we descend into the underworld of our emotions. We traverse the land of shadows and slowly unmask them to reveal the truth, and then we make them beautiful through the words we choose. Poetry as a means of inner exploration and journeying inward to our own personal Hades is then a kind of profound bravery. We descend, pen in hand, and come back up with something new each time: perhaps an aspect of our shadow self we’re ready to integrate, a truth we didn’t see before, or even seeds of hope.

Every time we do this, we’re coaxing shadows into the light and transmuting pain as we ourselves become lighter through the act of releasing that dense energy, and it becomes easier each time.

Poetry is alchemy and poets are not afraid to name what we see, whether internally or within the collective. We’ll call out every hellish demon and cage them in poems: injustice, hate, trauma. When we’re willing to dive deep for those shadowy aspects and catalogue our growth in words, poetry itself becomes a hero’s journey as we confront demon after demon. And when we come together to vulnerably and openly share those stories, they resonate and often inspire others to do the same. It reminds us of that singular, powerful truth: you are not alone.

This is what kept me returning to open mics and helped me transform from scared and terrified of speaking and sharing, to feeling powerful and confident on stage (& fully enjoying it!). Seeing other poets get up there and share their truth felt like massive encouragement to me that I could do that too.

Open mics are often very warm, nonjudgmental safe spaces, with voices from all walks of life. If you haven’t been to one, I encourage you to look up where your local mic (or a nearby one) might be and take a chance! Your voice deserves to be heard!

And if you’re nowhere near an open mic, consider online writing circles to share your work. Before I could get comfortable reading to a live audience in person, I dipped my toes in the online world. In fact, the first time I ever shared a poem publicly was on a zoom open mic, facilitated by Buddy Wakefield and the late-great Andrea Gibson. Talk about being in the presence of genius! (Should we start a Poetry Rise online open mic?!?).

If you’re still holding on to some deep pain, perhaps now is the time for a very public execution in a poem. I promise it will be not only cathartic and powerful, but if you keep sharing, in whatever capacity that looks like for you, it will become transformative. If I can go from someone who couldn’t even speak up to order her own food at fast food restaurants to someone who gets on stage to read poems calling out misogyny and injustice or talk about my past struggles with depression, self-hatred and eating disorders – anyone can. It just takes courage and a desire to change.

I want to leave you with a poem on this theme and invite you to reflect and use it as a jumping off point for your own inner exploration.

In my poem “The Raw” below, I personify trauma itself. I want you to think about how you would name and describe your pain. Don’t describe the actual trauma, but rather explore it abstractly, through metaphor and the senses.

What does it look like? Smell like? Where does it live in your body? What sounds does it make? If you were locked in a room together, knowing what you know now, what would you say to it? How would you alchemize it? Build a story where you descend into that darkness to confront it and come out the victor.

Be brave. Step into that innermost room, pick up the sword of your pen, and slay.

If you feel called to share in the comments, whether full poems, short stanzas or even just your thoughts, we would absolutely love to hear.

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The Raw by Maverick L. Malone

He is there
you cannot smoke him out or starve him
you cannot catch or kill him
your disregard, your unwillingness to even glance
feeds his monstrosity and he seeps
deeper than roots can grow
bloodthirsty first-born son of shadow
he thrives in darkness, builds catacombs from the living
a thing to be survived, thievery of night
this tallymaker of torment but is nothing
if not generous with memory
reveling in clawmarked moments when you least expect
chaos conductor
ironpaw trigger father
cancer of soul and carnivore of song
do not wait too long
he is master maestro Monstro
will gulp you whole and raw
he is there
lodged in your body with rooms for rent
studying you with intensity
stalking your every move
eyebrows raised in intrigue, every coarse hair on end
smacking his salivating, dripping lips
clean of the gristle and bone-crunch soul he thinks is his
look up! look up! rid yourself of him!
waste not a minute more
and make contact with his insufferable gaze
be transformed in freedom’s fire
from the acknowledgement of your pain

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Before we taste different perspectives, let’s set the table with a brief factual primer:

• Terms (how experts use them). Gender identity is a person’s deeply felt, internal sense of gender; it can align with or differ from sex assigned at birth (WHO; APA). Transgender refers to people whose gender identity doesn’t match their sex assigned at birth; the diagnosis gender dysphoria describes distress that can result from that incongruence (DSM-5-TR/APA). In ICD-11, “gender incongruence” is categorized outside mental disorders, under sexual health (WHO). (World Health Organization)

• How many people? The UCLA Williams Institute’s 2025 update estimates about 2.8 million people ages 13+ in the U.S. identify as transgender (~1.0% of those 13+). Among adults, ~0.8%; among youth 13–17, ~3.3%. (Williams Institute)

• Public opinion and youth risk. Pew finds views are mixed and shifting; as of Feb. 2025, majorities support some restrictions (e.g., school sports), while other views vary by policy (Pew Research). Meanwhile, CDC data show transgender and questioning students report markedly higher rates of bullying and suicide attempts than cisgender peers—underscoring the stakes for safety and support in schools (CDC YRBS 2023/2024). (Pew Research Center)

• Care models & guidelines. Major U.S. medical groups (Endocrine Society; WPATH; AAP; AMA) endorse gender-affirming care within multidisciplinary, informed-consent frameworks, with puberty suppression typically considered reversible, cross-sex hormones partly irreversible, and surgeries irreversible; evidence quality varies across interventions, and teams are urged to assess capacity, co-occurring needs, and family context (Endocrine Society 2017 guideline; 2024 statements; WPATH SOC-8; AAP). (PubMed)

• Policy is contested and changing. U.S. state policies differ widely (KFF tracker; ACLU trackers). Internationally, the U.K.’s NHS now limits puberty blockers for under-18s to research settings, with an indefinite national ban outside trials following the 2024 Cass Review; supporters call it evidence-led caution, critics call it harmful (NHS; UK DHSC/BMJ; Cass review materials). (KFF)

• Regret & detransition. Surgical regret appears low (~1% across 27 studies) but not zero; evidence on hormone discontinuation/detransition is emerging and heterogeneous, with reasons ranging from stigma and access to shifts in identity or health needs. Research calls for better, long-term data (2021 systematic review; JAMA/Endocrine literature; BMJ commentary). (PMC)

That’s the ground. Now, the lenses.

1) The Affirming Lens

The body is a sentence, the soul an editor.

Sometimes the margin note is not a phase

but the truest version of the draft.

This view centers the person’s self-knowledge and the relief many describe when allowed to live in alignment with it. Clinically, it values timely, team-based care; socially, it asks families, schools, and communities to lower the temperature and raise the safety net.

2) The Caution Lens

First, do no harm;

then, do no haste.

This view emphasizes uncertainties, particularly for adolescents: long-term outcomes, bone health, neurodevelopment, and the need for robust data and guardrails. It welcomes support and psychotherapy, urges careful assessment, and—in some systems, limits medication to research or tight criteria until evidence strengthens.

3) The Rights & Autonomy Lens

Your body is jurisdiction;

consent is the law.

Here the core is civil liberty: adults (and mature minors within legal frameworks) should decide their own medical paths. Interference by the state risks flattening people into political categories. The AMA and other U.S. groups argue policy should protect access and clinician judgment, not criminalize it.

4) The Women’s-Spaces & Fairness Lens

Two truths at once:

dignity for all,

and the need for rules that keep sports fair

and private spaces safe.

This view worries about unintended consequences for sex-segregated contexts (sports, shelters, bathrooms, prisons) and calls for policies that both respect trans people and preserve fairness/safety. Public opinion has trended toward restrictions in school sports, even as other policies divide opinion.

5) The Faith Lens

In the beginning was a Name.

Some believe it was written in the bones.

Others believe it is whispered to the heart.

Religious traditions read the body and personhood in different ways. In plural societies, the task is coexistence without contempt—making room for conscience while preventing cruelty.

6) The Lived-Reality Lens

A person is not a debate;

they are a morning routine,

a commute, a quiet win,

a friend who shows up.

Whatever one believes about policy, many trans people describe moving from unlivable to livable when support meets them early and consistently. Others describe missteps, reversals, or harm when care is delayed, rushed, or politicized. The honest response is humility: get better data, build safer communities, and keep listening.

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A small chorus of poems (three voices)

Body as Draft
I was given a draft I didn’t write.
Some lines fit; others bruise when written.
I changed the tense, the title, and the name.
You called it revision,
I called it becoming.

Gate & Garden
The gate is there for a reason,
but so is the forest.
People argue over the lock and
the trees argue over the sun.
Both are right about the rain.

Witness
If your certainty makes you kinder, keep it.
If your certainty makes you cruel, let it go.
The truth you can prove is smaller
than the truth you can live with.

What follows goes deeper into how poetry can hold contradictions, what the evidence really says, and how to practice perspective-taking without burning the bridge. If you want the full piece (and the writing prompts that come with it), join us on the other side.

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I’m not much a notes-person on Substack, but now that I’ve left Instagram (which was the only other social media I had), I’m getting into perusing notes and participating in discussion as a means of connection. And last week, Jared dropped one that caught my attention.

And just as an aside, if you see a post or note by “Poetry Rise,” it’s probably him (Poetry Rise’s founder) or Kayla (fellow contributing author) that is responding.

I’ll always respond as myself.

It was a fun prompt, and y’all came in hot right from the start. This sparked an idea within me; first, to share your responses and second, to write a forthcoming article highlighting the moon as it has been used in poetry (and why we’re so obsessed with it.) But as I was beginning to write that article, it ballooned, so I’ve split it into two parts. Ahem…excuse me. Phases, in keeping with the theme.

I wanted to give myself ample space to wax poetic on you and shine the spotlight on this community, so that’s what today’s post is. And we’ll save the deep-dive moon history for a forthcoming article, which will include more prompts and opportunities to be featured, so make sure you…

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This is also your not-so-subtle hint that if you comment on our notes or articles, you never know what it could lead to, so don’t be shy about starting a discussion and sharing your thoughts. We may not always be able to reply to every comment, but we’re always reading and getting new ideas.

We want to highlight you and your work because this is a community! And today’s post is a prime example of how this community works: it’s collaborative. You never know when something you say might pique our interest and inspire an entire post like these did.

Here are some of my favorite responses that I wanted to share with you in case you missed them (poets are linked via their screenshots).

I really hope this one was human-made and not AI because it’s clever AF, and I adore puns and a good play on words.

This is just delightfully random, which is why I love it. It feels like ADHD brain to me: you’re having a deep conversation or are hyperfixated on a task and then suddenly a totally unrelated thought like this pops in and makes you laugh.

When reading through some of Sean’s poems on his substack, I just happened to stumble upon one with a moon reference (what did I tell you? We’re obsessed. The moon works for so many themes). This line struck me, from his poem “Neil, Son” :

“I smile like the moon and meadows / smile from those poems.”

I encourage you to read the full gorgoeus thing here and then comment to let Sean know your thoughts.

As poets, we can often feel unseen and unheard, so if you take the time to read that poem or any work by anyone else I have linked—please, please let them know with a heart or a comment. That goes a long way (and I speak from very personal experience.)

Strong haikus can be a challenge to write when given the confines of the 5-7-5 rule, but this one is well done. I love the imagery and the feelings it invokes. Haikus often have layers to them, which is how I see this one. I think strong poetry calls forth our curiosity and critical thinking; asks us for our own interpretation as we draw parallels from the poem to our own lives.

The moon illuminates that which has been hidden. This poem asks us something of the same: what is our own “show and tell”? What may have been hidden that we’re ready to see, speak or share?

When I clicked on her name, her bio had “Smart assed funny old dame” front and center. OKAAAAY Charlotte! You have my attention. You seem pretty grand (*lifts glass*).

This one is lighthearted and fun, and I love the rhyme scheme. Seeing “goodnight” so close to “moon” also makes me think of the classic children’s book, Goodnight Moon.

1,000% yes songs count! Songs are just poems set to music, and now I need to hear the music for this one (please message me)!

My curiosity led me to her page and a Spotify search and y’all—her music is amazing (and she calls her substack a songstack. LOVE THAT!).

Seriously, how is this woman not famous yet? Go follow her. I think she’ll be big in the future. I sense that.

Profundity in a few words. I, personally, am not a woman of few words, but even I can appreciate the challenge. This one is an intriguing thought: imagine all the secrets the moon sees on a nightly basis! THE SCANDAL!

But also: the absolute tenderness and magic. *sigh*

RELATABLE AF! This made me laugh. Humor and sarcasm are my love languages.

On the surface, this one seems like a silly, playful poem about the frustration of taking pictures of the moon that never exhibit her full majesty. But if we look at it deeper, we can make that connection I mentioned earlier by asking the simple quesiton, “How does this relate to my life?”

I think we’ve all had a similar experience where we, ourselves, feel like we also show up in photos like the moon, especially when we take “bad” ones. I literally just wrote about this on my own substack, moon references and all, on learning to love my “derp” photos. If you’re interested, you can read that (and see said derp-photos) here.

A photo will never be able to capture the true essence of us. And I bet that’s something that’s led you to poetry, isn’t it? The desire to more fully “capture” and convey what photos can’t.

That fact that this note got over 90 responses in a relatively short amount of time is a testament to the very obvious truth: poets are obsessed with the moon.

I think it also stands as a testament to this community. WE HAVE THINGS TO SAY AND SHARE!

There’s a lot of talent here! I had so much fun reading through everyone’s responses, seeing the creativity, and exploring various Substacks. There’s a wide array of interests and perspectives here—people from all walks of life—but isn’t it magical that the throughline of connection that brought us all together is poetry? And what is poetry if not the language of emotion? Of love? Of extending a hand and whispering, “I see you.”

Keep writing. Keep discussing. Keep glowing.

We can’t wait to see what you’ll write next and where that will take us, together.

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Let’s keep the conversation going. Let us know your thoughts in the comments! Which response was your favorite?

After I read Jared’s two articles last week—Poetry Ain't Therapy and How Poetry Saved [His] Life—I felt something stir in me. I wanted to elaborate on my own views of this because of what poetry means to me, and I wager—what it also means to many of you.

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You’re here for a reason, and I’ve seen it echoed in the comments: to be heard, felt, witnessed and to find community. We’re all seeking connection to something.

I think this is largely why many write poetry. It is a powerful avenue for all of those.

As poets, we often find ourselves on the fringe of life (at least I do); that is to say, we don’t fit in the neat and pretty boxes of society. We see the world differently, think differently; we exist differently. And like I wrote in one of my own poems, many of us are searching for “the ones like us who will write our name across the top.” Without the full context of that poem, I’ll let you decipher its meaning, for this is the gift of not only poetry, but life, asking us to continually connect the dots for ourselves.

Contrary to Jared’s opinion, I think poetry is a kind of therapy and can serve as a profound healing modality. For me, I’ve found immense healing in simply putting words to feelings and experiences that otherwise could not be expressed. Poetry is language for when you don’t even have the language. It allows for a deeper and more expansive expression and to me, that often means exploration, catharsis, and an eventual surrender after sitting with the feelings.

Early in my journey, poetry was the light in the dark as I moved through a difficult divorce.

Though I initiated it, severing a fourteen year relationship and leaving something so known and comfortable (albeit suffocating and often unhealthy) is never easy. Grief is grief, no matter who initiates it and stepping into the unknown is difficult territory that requires deep self trust. Poetry reminded me I wasn’t alone and is how I cultivated the strength to leave, by being willing to explore the depths of myself and discover what I wanted for my own life, not what others expected from me.

Poetry gave me something no one else at that time ever did: safe, completely nonjudgmental space to express and explore my thoughts and feelings without the fog of expectations, judgments and others’ (often terrible) advice and opinions. I remember writing a poem on the last family vacation my ex and I ever took that literally told me to stop lying to myself, when at the time I didn’t even realize that’s what I’d been doing for years.

I was sitting on the beach while my daughter played happily in the sand, and my ex sat totally unaware of the deep unhappiness and grief that dwelled in my body. By all external accounts, we were the highlight reel, and I’d convinced myself it was the whole movie. I’d ignored my truth for years, choosing instead to live a lie, pretending that things could get better or that I could “learn to be happy” with the way things were when I was absolutely starving for me.

I actually meant to say “more” but my fingers typed “me,” and we are leaving that typo—which I see now is not a typo at all but the actual point I’m trying to make here. When we write, inevitably the truth reveals itself.

I was starving for me. I’d never given myself the chance to discover who that was beyond the confines of what this other person expected me to be, and I was so afraid of losing what I had—since it was all I knew—that I was sacrificing myself for crumbs of “good enough” when I wanted buffets of great.

It wasn’t until I began allowing myself the space to write and express my truth to myself that I built up the courage to later express it to him and tell him I wanted needed a divorce.

I remember this realization on the ride back to the hotel one night.

I had this overwhelming sense of warmth radiating from my chest. Even as a writer, I find it difficult for what it is I experienced. I can only describe it as “loving kindness” for the whole of me, a kind of ethereal godlike presence finally emerging reminding me I wasn’t alone. It was a total allowance of my truth and this sense that no matter what I decided, I was supported and now connected to something that could never leave my side because not only did it live within me, but I’d finally let it in. I’d finally opened my heart and decided to listen.

What greater healing exists than that?

Maybe that is also what poetry does for you. Or maybe your greatest healing has come from traditional therapy (also something I champion), a combination of both, or something else entirely. But no matter the modality, I think the greatest healing we can find is in vulnerability itself, the courage to speak the unspeakable and share our stories, knowing someone, somewhere, will resonate with it and echo back, “I see you.”

Poetry is a bridge for connection—first to the purest form of self and then an outwards ripple into others. Before long, we realize we’ve spun an impossibly beautiful web from our words, one syllable threaded through another:

You are not alone.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.

I feel disgusted at how quickly nonsense takes root. Not just at the creators of lies, but at the millions who pass them along, feeding the system that functions as a network of echo chambers. We blame platforms and CEOs, but the truth is, algorithms are only mirrors that reflect and amplify what’s inside of us.

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