Kiera Gerety

Only 16 days until launch… and this was only the second poem I ever wrote.

A wild daisy, simple and bright, 

 Its petals pale as morning’s light,  Spins and sways in the summer’s breath,  A fleeting joy on the twilight’s crest. A tulip blooms with a blush of rose,  Where soft winds whisper and rivers flow.  Petals bow in their gentle flight, 

 A toast to beauty in the fading light. A rose of crimson, bold and rare, 

 Climbs my gate with tender care.  Its blossoms speak of friendship’s grace,  A fleeting kiss, a soft embrace. 

The dahlia stirs in golden hue, 

 A radiant gem in morning’s dew.  She lifts her face, her beauty clear,  And I am stilled, my heart sincere. The lily rests, a fragrance sweet, 

An orchid’s bloom beneath the sun,  Softly glowing, her heart undone.  Her gaze meets mine, and time stands still,  Two souls entwined, one shared will.

 Wound in a wreath where spirits meet.  Perhaps this bloom is love’s first taste,  Her kiss upon my lips, a grace. 

Now it will be the last poem in Ink, Blood, & Prayer. The beginning of my journey to close out this anthology; the beginning of a new life: that of a published author.

The Words That Kept Me Alive Are Almost Yours

Sixteen days until Ink, Blood, and Prayer finally finds its way into your hands. I can’t stop smiling, crying, pacing, and quietly losing my mind. The countdown feels electric, like standing barefoot in wet grass during a thunderstorm, just waiting for the sky to break open.

This book is the most honest thing I’ve ever written. It’s not polished. It’s not clean. It’s sacred and messy and soaked with the kind of grief that leaves teeth marks, and the kind of hope that comes only after surviving yourself. Every page carries pieces of me I never thought I’d let anyone read. But I did it. I’m doing it. And you’re going to hold it soon.

The launch party is July 17th. That date has been circled, highlighted, written in the margins of every calendar I’ve touched for months. If you’re local, come hug me. If you’re far, I’ll have a livestream. If you’ve been with me from the beginning or just found me last week, I want you there. You’ve been part of this.

I put twelve years of blood, relapse, rage, and grace on paper. And then I’m going to give it to you. Because poetry saved my life, and maybe, just maybe, something in these pages will hold you the way writing them held me.

Before I Was a Poet, There Was This

I wrote A Garland of Blossoms at a high point in my life. I had three years sober. My feet were steady under me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t just surviving. No, I was living. The chaos had quieted. The wreckage had been cleared. I had finally gathered the broken pieces of myself and fit them into something whole.

That feeling, of soft strength, of hard-won peace, is what birthed this poem.

I wasn’t writing out of crisis when it came to me. I was writing from a place of clarity, of gratitude. It felt like my heart had opened and flowers spilled out: daisies, orchids, night blooms. This poem wasn’t a scream or a sob. It was a deep, steady breath. A reminder that beauty doesn’t just rise from pain, it can also come from stillness.

And now, years later, after I shattered again and rebuilt myself once more, this poem closes Ink, Blood, and Prayer. It stands at the end of the book as a whisper from the past: a moment when I believed I had made it out for good.

In a book full of rage, rawness, and survival, A Garland of Blossoms is the soft place I land. And maybe you will too.

The Exhale at the End

I kept almost cutting this poem.

It felt too quiet. Too tender. It didn’t rage. It didn’t bleed the way the others did. And in a book called Ink, Blood, and Prayer, I thought, maybe it doesn’t belong. Maybe it’s not angry enough. Not gritty enough. Too soft. Too clean.

But every time I tried to let it go, it held on. Something in me knew I needed it. And when I finally sat down with the full manuscript, start to finish, pain to prayer, I understood why.

A Garland of Blossoms is the exhale. It’s the hush after the storm, the silence when the screaming stops, the soft ground you collapse into when you’ve survived your own destruction. It’s not a poem about flowers. It’s about gentleness as a survival instinct. About the part of healing that doesn’t need to prove itself with blood or scars.

This poem was written during a rare stretch of calm in my life, three years sober, steady, full of hope. It’s a snapshot of a woman who believed she’d made it out for good. And even though I didn’t stay in that peace, though I shattered again, relapsed again, crawled through fire again, this poem reminds me that wholeness was once possible. And that it will be possible again.

That’s why it had to be the last poem in the book. Because Ink, Blood, and Prayer is not just about surviving. It’s about what comes after survival. About believing in softness again. Trusting stillness. Letting your heart be held, not just hardened.

This poem doesn’t scream. It offers its hand. And after everything, I wanted the book to end with that.

I Lost Her. And Then I Found Myself.

When I wrote A Garland of Blossoms, I was a different woman than I am now. I had three years sober. I was steady. I felt whole. At the time, I truly believed I was done breaking.

But over the last three years, I shattered again. And again. And again. Each relapse stripped me down further than the one before. I lost things I thought I’d never lose: my peace, my purpose, my trust in myself. There were moments I didn’t know if I’d ever come back from it. Moments when the idea of healing felt like a cruel joke.

And yet, I kept going.

I clawed my way back toward the light more times than I can count. I kept writing through the shame. I kept praying, even when I didn’t believe anything was listening. And slowly, breath by breath, step by step, I started to rebuild.

I am not the woman who wrote A Garland of Blossoms. She was full of hope and clarity. But I honor her, because she showed me what was possible. And now, clean again, I am becoming something new. Not the same version of healed, but a deeper one. One who has lived through the aftershocks. One who knows what it costs to rise again.

This time, I’m building something I trust will last. Not because I believe I won’t break again, but because I believe I’ll survive it if I do.

Let’s Bloom Together

If you haven’t preordered Ink, Blood, and Prayer yet, now’s the time. Sixteen days from now, it’ll be out in the world: bloody, beautiful, trembling, and true.

Drop a comment with your favorite flower. Tell me how long you’ve been following my journey, whether it’s been ten years, ten weeks, or ten minutes, I’m grateful you’re here. Tag someone who loves poetry, who needs poetry, who is poetry and maybe doesn’t know it yet.

This post is for anyone who ever wrote something tender and thought it wasn’t enough.
It is.
It always was.
And I’m so glad you stayed long enough to see it bloom.