Collection: poetry books

This collection doesn't whisper—it testifies. Each poem is a fragment of stained glass reassembled by trembling hands, catching light that's been filtered through addiction, heartbreak, and the kind of faith that only grows in dark places.

Here, recovery meetings become revival tents. Street corners transform into altars. The voice moves between confession booth and microphone, between prayer and profanity, finding holiness in the space between falling and getting back up.

These poems speak the untranslated languages of 4 AM desperation and noon redemption. They chronicle the mythology of modern survival—where angels have track marks, where miracles happen in methadone clinics, where resurrection looks less like Easter morning and more like making it through Tuesday.

The verse form itself mirrors the journey: fractured lines that slowly find their rhythm, broken syntax that learns to breathe again, images that bleed into each other like watercolors in rain.

This is scripture for the spiritually homeless, gospel for the godforsaken, prayer for those who've forgotten how to fold their hands.

A collection that refuses to choose between grit and grace—because sometimes they're the same thing.