Beginnings and Endings is my first self-published poetry collection. A staggering 93 poem journey through the sparks, mess, and echoes of relationships. From first connection to final silence, these poems hold space for hope, hurt, and unapologetic vulnerability.
Whether it’s a love that healed, or one that hallowed. These poetic works explore the real, bittersweet truths that live inside us all. Written from a transgender man’s perspective, while capturing beginnings, messy middles, and the inevitable endings with honesty and grit.
Themes and What to Expect
Relationships: first spark, deep connection, heartbreak, reconciliation
Emotional journey: hope, grief, self-discovery, reflection, mental health
I woke up at 7 p.m. because my phone vibrated on the side of my face! Kelsey had been in a hit-and-run while door dashing. Thankfully I can get up and go because I left immediately to make sure they were okay. The car was drivable, and Kelsey was unharmed, but the shock of the situation was definitely hard on both of us. Later, we had friends over and they brought dinner! They also super helped us with the TV Bull crap. I think the good company made the evening a little easier managed.
Not 3 minutes after she left, Kylie called (three doors down.) “You have to come outside! NORTHERN LIGHTS!” Both of them are bordering on giddy. I personally was skeptical and assumed it was going to be like the last few times we could see them… which was only in photos. But when they showed us on FaceTime we got up and got outside instantly. We actually had to walk down to their place to see them being that they were literally on top of our house.
There were pink and green lights sweeping across the sky in Central Ohio?!!
I now not one of us had ever seen the northern lights like that. They were bright, moving, and mesmerizing. The lights didn’t erase the weight of the day. The stress of a hit-and-run, the TV, and the ongoing grief of losing my mom on four years ago. However, they did offer a sudden, unexpected lift.
Amid all the ordinary chaos and grief, the northern lights were a rare reminder that small bursts of beauty can matter deeply.
Aurora Borealis Facts & Emotional Reflections
Auroras, or the northern lights, occur when charged particles from the sun collide with gases in Earth’s atmosphere. Oxygen then produces green or red light, while nitrogen produces blue or purple. These collisions tend to occur near the poles because Earth’s magnetic field funnels the particles there. That being said seeing the aurora over Central Ohio is rare. Though solar storms and high solar activity can make it possible.
Historical events like the Carrington Event of 1859 show us the power of geomagnetic storms. In extreme cases they produce auroras visible at unusually low latitudes. Telegraph systems across the globe failed during this event, and auroras were visible as far south as the Caribbean. This shows both the beauty and power of the sun interacting with our planet. The northern lights above our house were not of that degree though.
The tie in is knowing to a lot of people grief and depression feel intertwined or undistinguishable from the other. But grief is episodic, typically tied to loss, and often unpredictable. This bad boy surfaces in waves that can crash with no warning.
Depression on the other hand can be more persistent, a shadow that affects every part of life, dulling your favorite color and adding weight like nothing else. When I lost my mom in 2021 I was left with a steady ache that resurfaces, to go along with my depression, to go along with my seasonal affective disorder.
Obviously this is especially worse for some people around death anniversaries, holidays and birthdays. But last night, the aurora brought a lightness, not a fix, but tiny pause in the heaviness. A small moment, bursts of joy, is bigger than you think. These things matter. Things like a friend’s call, a shared meal, or a flickering sky. The moments that anchor us to the ground when life piles on all its shit are usually the most profoundly simple .
The day had been full of catastrophes. Kelsey’s accident, the TV, the ordinary weight of a difficult year. Tiny moments you’d often let pass unnoticed can fix your day. We let the northern lights force our attention, to them. This gave us pause, notice, and a quiet awe to share. It’s the contrast between chaos and beauty that makes such moments stand out.
Looking up at the lights, the weight of the day shifted slightly. It isn’t erased. The TV, the wreck, the grief, the ordinary trials are still present. Just now with a reminder of wonder, of unpredictability, and of something bigger than routine and worry. It’s often the little things, like noticing a rare northern lights display, that make a day worth remembering.
Life continues with its challenges. Grief continues to arrive, as does anxiety, tech failures, accidents, and the everyday weight of living.
Every voice carries a story worth hearing. At Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism. We shine a light on those stories. The raw, real, and resilient. Our Book Spotlights celebrate independent authors and poets who speak truth through art. Today, we’re honored to feature The Good Die Young by Shela Brown — a powerful, vulnerable collection that transforms pain into poetry and healing into art.
The Good Die Young (TGDY) is a 91-page digital poetry collection and memoir, evoking raw, unfiltered emotion. These poems follow a young woman navigating heartbreak, identity, and the depths of mental health struggles—depression, anxiety, and PTSD.
Through each verse, TGDY explores how innocence transforms, how pain shapes us, and how expression becomes survival. This project is more than poetry; it’s reflection, release, and rebirth. A right of passage and a pivotal part of the author’s healing journey.
For the art lovers. For the healers. For anyone who has ever felt deeply and quietly at once.
For those still finding themselves after the storm. This is a safe space …soft, heavy, and honest.
The Good Die Young reminds us that art is survival, and that writing can be a home for every emotion we’ve been told to silence.
Through The Prism, we continue to uplift voices like Shela Brown’s . The voices that turn pain into power, and vulnerability into strength.
If her story resonates with you, share it forward. Every share helps another poet, author, artist,or creative be seen. And another story be heard.
I created Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism because too many voices were told they weren’t enough. Either too soft, too loud, too different, too much. And I wanted to build a space where “too much” becomes exactly right.
Every spotlight, every poem, every project under Poeaxtry_ exists to remind creators that their stories matter. The goal isn’t fame or followers … it’s community visibility, validation, and connection.
I do this for the ones who never saw themselves on the shelf. For the ones who were told to edit out the truth. For the ones still healing, still creating, still daring to speak.
Because when one of us is seen, we all shine brighter.
Grief has a way of showing up right when the world is shouting about holiday cheer. Every neon display tells you to be merry. Every commercial insists that joy is mandatory. It hits harder when your heart is carrying loss. This poem confronts that tension directly. It’s the kind where love and pain sit in the same room. You find yourself trying to breathe through both. Readers who have carried a loss through the holiday season will recognize that raw pull. Those who have tried to balance healing with real life will also feel it. In a world that doesn’t slow down, this piece reminds you that grief doesn’t follow the calendar. It follows the heart, step by step, memory by memory.
“Happy fucking holiday.”
An original poem by: Axton N.O. Mitchell
I’m depressed,
and my life isn’t even a mess
compared to what it used to be.
Recently, I learned:
grief isn’t something
medication will ever ease.
You have to let it
drop you to your knees.
The pills really do work
for what they’re worth.
But I still have to get used
to the loss of you.
And now your dog is gone too.
She held so many memories of you:
the way you put her in your purse,
the way you two were attached.
The way she looked at me like she knew she’d be with you.
Letting go
has never come easy to me.
I don’t think
I’ll ever fully heal
the loss of you.
Maybe I can’t…
If it’s true
medicine for depression
can’t touch
what grief has caused.
Now what will
carry me through
the loss of you?
This one came out of the type of day when everything felt too close. I kept thinking about how healing never looks like what people promise. Folks hand out easy lines. They say time heals everything, or that pills fix the hurt. However, they never sit with what grief really does. Losing someone shifts the ground under you, and sometimes the memories that stay behind hit just as hard. Even the dog carried pieces of that story. Writing this was my way to accept the truth. Medicine can soften the edges, but it can’t erase the shape of a loss. It felt important to say it out loud. If someone out there needs that same permission to feel what they feel, I hope this poem offers them comfort. This poem can give them space to breathe.
Grief asks us to carry the weight of love long after someone is gone. It shows up in the soft places, the unexpected reminders, the empty corners where laughter used to live. This poem is part of a larger journey through healing and memory. It explores the fragile work of moving forward even when the heart refuses to forget. If this piece met you where you are today, stay with that feeling. Let it be a reminder that your grief is real, and your healing is real. You don’t have to rush toward some polished version of recovery. You’re allowed to take it slow. You’re allowed to remember. You’re allowed to feel all of it… especially on the days when the world tells you to smile.
Four years this November as always 8 days before my birthday.
And Wednesday
I finally got to see her dog again.
The last living pet my mom had left.
The last heartbeat in this world that still carried her by choice and not birth.
The only one who remembered both of us and my sisters.
The only one left who still held my mom’s scent, her rhythm, her quiet love. The reason it was so easy to decide to bring mom home. Jewel. She was my sibling too.
I hadn’t seen her since the day we lost my mom
Not once. She stole mom’s favorite blanket and my mom’s husband stole my ability to see her basically in unity.
Because a man that knew the dog 3 years and was married to my mom the same wouldn’t let me come around. As if he loved them all the entire time I did.
And after he died
My sister took her thankfully.
Sadly her pos excuse for a ex boyfriend wouldn’t let me come around
He was abusing my sister. It’s no secret. The public charges aired that out.
So everything in her world became locked down, closed off, unreachable by his choice
I was shut out
While the last piece of my mom grew older and slower without me
While I sat in that absence
Hurting
Helpless
Then earlier this week I hear she’s sick, and by Wednesday my sister is putting her down. It felt like the next time I turned around. So I went and saw her, my sister was able to secure the vet the next day to by us time.
One final time and we know that isn’t ever really enough time to say good bye.
I gave her a big meal from Wendy’s, nuggets, burgers, and ice cream.
I told her she was good
I told her I loved her
I held her. I told her she got to see mom first and I was jealous. I told her about all the pets before her and family she’d get too great. I couldn’t stop telling her that mom would be there soon.
I know she knew that we were up to something.
Then today
My sister took her to the vet
She was put to sleep
And cremated
And now she’s gone too.
This is grief that burns
Grief that screams
Grief that doesn’t just cry over what happened
But over everything that didn’t
Everything I never got to do
All the years I could have been beside her
All the comfort we could have shared in missing the same person
The same lap
The same voice
I didn’t just lose her
I was kept from her
And then I lost her anyway.
She didn’t just die
She was taken from me long before today
And then taken again.
I’m so fucking tired of things being stolen from me.
She was more than a dog
She was the last piece of my mother I could touch that Isn’t a human.
The last one who knew the way home used to smell.
The last little soul who got to grieve my mom with me finally returning to her. But I wasn’t ready.
Rest easy, sweet girl
I hope you’re curled up with her again.
I hope you both know I never stopped loving either of you
Tell her I’m still here
Still hurting
Still trying
Still loving
I am little lighter knowing mom has jewel. I know she has been watching and waiting for her jewely whoolie to come home across the rainbow bridge the last of her fur kids,
I was raised a girl. That’s how the world saw me. That’s what I was told to be. A little girl with crooked pigtails m, buck teeth, and scraped-up knees. She didn’t like being touched. She didn’t like being stared at. She never liked how the world made her feel.
Taught
She was taught to smile. Not because of happiness, it was just safer. She learned to laugh off the gross comments much before she could read chapter books. She learned how to keep a boy from following her home. How to hold keys and lighters in her balled up fist.I know that just existing in a body the world called “girl” comes with a constant background noise of threat.
Assaulted
I was assaulted, as a little girl, as a teen, and as a man. A few years after passing the awkward transition phases; I was years on hormones. A woman I was dating at the time liked to get me drunk enough to forget. Not that I want to but, it’s worth mentioning I never remembered one single time. She told me it was easier that way. Then the used up it’s me not you.
Myth
There’s this myth that once you transition, it all goes away. As if you can flip a switch, cut your hair, change your name, and suddenly be safe. As if I am suddenly respected. Erasing my trauma from living as a girl as if it doesn’t stick to me. My second skin. Even after the world starts seeing you differently, it doesn’t mean it treats you right. If you don’t “pass” all the time. Especially when you live in small-town maga country .
Now, I get called “sir” until certain people get told, because no they can’t tell. The people that claim they “are my friends” say “she” behind my back as soon as they get mad at me. However, the flip side is worse for me. Now these people assume I’m one of them. Racist comments. Sexist jokes. Homophobia. Trans baby conspiracies.Assuming I’m a good ol’ boy. I was never meant to become the enemy. When I out myself they stop treating like the man I am. The privilege stops when I defend someone. I won’t close my mouth to save my neck.
Remember
Remember not all men started the same. Some of us became men on purpose. With intention. With pain. With joy, too. But it wasn’t simple. And it wasn’t fast.
In my late teens and early twenty’s, I thought I was a lesbian. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t confused. That label made sense for a while. I liked girls. I never felt like one, I tried to. I didn’t have the words to explain, but I was a man. Not a phase, I just hadn’t fully found the truth. I have lesbian memories. I have lesbian trauma. I have lesbian experiences. That doesn’t go away just because I’m a man. Identity isn’t always a clean line. I’m a transgender man, and I lived as a lesbian. I survived as a girl. I became someone else and stayed alive.
Yearn
I yearn to be read. I want my work to move people who’ve never been seen. People that never had a place at the table. I’m not wasting time trying to win over systems that ignore us. I’m going to carve us something new. Each project I curate is rooted in the belief that all minority stories deserve to be told in our own voices.
I want people to remember and know that minorities don’t just die. We live. We laugh. We have favorite songs. We have poetry in our blood and grief in our bones.
I write because I won’t be erased. I write because I’m still here. I want to make sure no one else feels like they have to disappear just to be seen.
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I am a fan of the melancholy, the morbid, and the macabre.
A glutton for the gore and the grotesque. A shameless slut for a slasher or two.. I’m hoping this is also you.
See I find it easier to write about what I know and I like. If I hit a bump or two and I cannot seem to write a thing, I like. I just look into the dark for a spark.
If you make friends when the sunshine dies where the sidewalk ends… Where creepers find a home to crawl, You are in for a treat. Take your seat.
This is my homage to the strange, the odd one out, the girl who forgot her shout, and the boy who had her back but never his own. You are no longer under attack.
“Past This” An original poem by: Axton N.O. Mitchell
Been working on myself and center Like gravity it is a tragedy, pulling you towards me… Away again and back alas.
Please just let this pass!
I won’t unlock the door, won’t pick you up off the floor… Settle the score Return to the masses, I must get past this. Continuing this route only ends my life,
