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Best Poems Written by Lauren Tilley

Below are the all-time best Lauren Tilley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

The Last Act Is Mine

You dripped love like honey,
sweet and golden -
a gilded snare I didn’t see coming.
You adored me loudly,
so the world would clap its hands,
so I would clap my hands -
a fool in your theatre of lies.
You were the man they envied.
I was the woman you owned.

The flat was supposed to be ours -
a home, a haven,
but the walls closed in like fists.
The silence wasn’t peace,
it was the space you left
when you slipped into other beds.
Her perfume clung to you,
a ghost I couldn’t exorcise,
a knife I kept turning inward.

You told me I wasn’t enough.
You told me she was the one,
the one who got away.
And still, you held me,
a trophy to dust when you pleased.
You fed me scraps of affection,
whispers of what I used to be -
as if love were a punishment
I should be grateful for.

Then the baby.
The choice.
Them, or me.
Do you know what it’s like to tear
something alive from your soul,
to claw your way back
from the dark pit of mother
and monster?
I chose me,
but I shattered doing it.

For years, I was a grave,
empty and aching,
my body remembering what it held,
my mind cursing what it let go.
I screamed into pillows,
I begged shadows for peace.
Five years, and this is the first
I haven’t ached for what I lost.

But don’t mistake me -
I haven’t forgiven you.
I haven’t forgotten.
I wish you nothing but darkness,
the same suffocating void
you built around me.
I hope the memory of me
crawls up your spine at night,
that the faces you see
are ones you can’t escape.

You turned me to ash,
but I rose,
smoke-streaked and scarred.
And now I am the fire
you’ll burn in forever.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Lost and Found

Have you ever forgotten
where your happy place is?
I have reason to believe I’m
the only one who has.
Sondering too deeply,
selfishly playing the victim.
I’m good at that.

I have questions for those
whose minds are not clouded,
lost, broken… like mine.

Is your happy place a luscious field,
blanketed in buds and fragrant blooms?
Does it have evergreen grass,
neat and perfect, never wild or unruly?
Or is it a beach where the sand
waltzes between your toes,
soft as silk, a tender caress?

Do the birds sing sweet harmonies,
while the sun paints golden patterns
on perfect skin?
Are familiar faces smiling, not just greeting,
but anchoring you in warmth,
washing away your doubts and fears,
until you forget what it feels like to ache?

Or do you find your peace in shadows,
where silence speaks louder
than sunlight ever could?
What about beneath a darkened sky,
where specks of glitter whisper old stories?
A crescent or full, is the moon there too?
Do you dance in twilight,
hum soothing tunes as firelight ignites your stage?

I bet you’re thinking of your place now.
Is a smile creeping onto your face?
Maybe just a curl of the lip,
or a spark of imagination invading your thoughts?

I’ve lied, so here’s the truth…
Poetry saved me - I’m breathing,
alive and kicking with every word.
I’m at peace here, happiest I’ve been,
free to express, to decompress.

So I leave you with this,
a wish and a dream.
I hope, somehow, these lines,
and everything in between 
helped you rediscover your happy place,
or at least reminded you,
shaken you to your core,
it’s still out there, it’s yours.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

October’s Child

Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire,
I learned early to love the art of falling.
Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets,
trees strip down without shame -
modesty’s for summer, after all.

October hums with rebellion:
bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed,
and the wind, cheeky as ever,
slips its cold fingers into every undone button.
History rattles here -
200 years since Waterloo fell quiet,
suffragette echoes stomping in boots,
a reminder that not all noise is noise.

It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light,
half beauty, half bite,
where endings feel like beginnings
and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through.
They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.”

And with each year, I’ve learned to ask,
Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall?
Can I burn and still remain whole?
These are the quiet prayers I carry -
for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold,
for light in the darkest corners,
and for the courage to blaze,
unashamed of the fire I carry.

Stitched from October’s fabric a
half twilight, half ember -
I walk between the brittle and the burning,
the quiet and the wild,
a child of autumn,
still falling,
still smugly aflame.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Reclaiming Worth

No one has the power to make you feel worthless
- so show them just that.
You’ve held that blade,
carving doubt into your skin,
like graffiti scrawled over your spirit,
letting others rule your heart
while you sat at rock bottom,
a prisoner to their judgments.
But the moment you rise,
you reclaim your power,
guarding it fiercely like a flame
that ignites from within.
Don’t shy away;
be the storm, the light,
the person you deserve to be -
raw, unfiltered, 
unapologetic.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Whispers Of The Woods

In quiet woods where whispers play,
The trees converse in rustling leaves;
As sunlight dances through the grey.
In quiet woods where whispers play,
Of seasons shifting, night to day,
The gentle breeze brings calm that cleaves,
In quiet woods where whispers play,
The trees converse in rustling leaves.

In quiet woods where whispers play,
As sunlight dances through the grey,
Of seasons shifting, night to day,
The gentle breeze brings calm that cleaves.
The trees converse in rustling leaves,
And finds their peace in what nature weaves.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

My Goldilocks Pill Jar

The weight I carried has settled,
not vanished, but pinned in place -
a fragile truce between my mind
and the pills I swallow, trembling.
They don’t call it a cure,
and I don’t ask for one;
but it’s enough to feel the unraveling slow.

I feel the world bleed into softer shapes,
colours no longer clawing at my skin,
the air no longer suffocating with noise.
The chaos still growls, caged but alive,
watching, waiting,
but I stand, grounded,
no longer flinching at silence,
or the darkness I once begged 
to swallow me whole.

I don’t ache with every breath anymore,
the oppression of my thoughts no longer crushing,
gnawing at my chest.
I don’t fight shadows that cling like chains,
or drown in static, my mind splintering.
Now, I wake, and the world’s 
no longer a battlefield -
for the first time in years,
I feel the weight of the earth beneath me,
no longer lost.
It’s not perfect,
but it’s enough to stand on.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Three Sides to Every Story

One side floats -
a shimmering veil,
woven from words that rest light as air,
a tale gliding just above the ground,
slipping past
roots and shadows.

It drifts with ease,
skimming the surface,
keeping well clear
of what lies deep.

Another side hides
in layers,
a patchwork cloak stitched in half-truths,
threaded with glances,
and silences that speak in riddles.

It flickers in and out of sight,
a phantom we nearly remember,
but can’t quite name.

The third side -
the one neither of us knows how to tell,
is tangled in brambles, thick and wild,
a story curled tight, buried in the earth.

It hums below the surface,
whispering
only in dreams,
a truth waiting to be unearthed
if we dare
to reach in.

Three sides to every story:
one that glides,
one that hides,
and one that waits,
ancient and still,
for someone bold enough
to piece it all together.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Shoes By The Door

Your shoes by the door,
worn soles tracing paths
you used to walk -
each scuff a story,
each crease a memory,
quiet but heavy.

They sit there,
still laced with quiet defiance,
a reminder of mornings you rushed,
of late nights spent at your desk -
always just a little more to do.

The scent of your aftershave
lingers in the hallway,
waiting for you to step back in,
but all that’s left are your shoes,
empty now,
facing the door that never opens.

I remember your stories -
the ones that made us laugh,
the silences that made me listen harder.
They echo now,
soft whispers in the rooms
where you once stood.

Your shoes by the door,
waiting in quiet solitude,
never quite lost to me.
I see you in the way they sit,
as if you’re just about to walk in,
like you never left.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Demons and Fireflies

Major depression crept in,
seeped through my defences like smoke,
the devil shimmying off my shoulder,
setting up a nest in my brain-
a puppeteer of despair,
fingers dancing on my strings,
turning thoughts to marionettes
that contort and squirm in shadows,
a cacophony of whispers,
a choir of chaos.

I had to confront those demons,
childhood phantoms pressed in the attic,
now bursting forth like weeds,
thick and thorny,
clawing for air,
their voices, echoes of innocence lost,
demanding an accounting -
a wildfire licks my skin.

Dismembered by the psychiatrist,
each session a surgical strike,
my thoughts on display
upon a cold, sterile table -
this, my autopsy,
a catalogue of fragmented dreams,
my heart caught in a jar,
tender pieces examined,
wondering how they fell apart.

Features of psychosis wrap around me,
a mantle sewn from a bunch of uncertainty,
trapped within this home,
a labyrinth of lost hope.
My organised mind,
once a temple of clarity,
now a broken shrine,
debris of sanity scattered
like confetti at a wake.

But now,
I’m facing truths,
telling truths,
my voice a tremor,
each syllable a battle cry,
the echoes of my past
still haunting the corridors.
The unnerving ghosts
linger like unwanted guests,
whispers slithering
through the cracks of my mind,
taunts cloaked in shadows,
doubt’s relentless parade.

Yet when the weight of the world
crushes my spirit,
when I crave a sliver of light,
the fireflies appear -
small sparks lighting up the dark,
their glow a resistance,
a dance of resilience against hopelessness,
a flicker of warmth in the cold -
a signal from my unresting mind,
reminding me that, amidst the ruins,
my heart can still flare up;
that beauty resides in the fractures
and hope, like fireflies,
lights the path home.

Details | Lauren Tilley Poem

Anywhere But Here

The walls close in,
peeling paint whispering stories
I’ve worn too long.
The air clings heavy,
stale as forgotten dreams,
suffocating, soaked in dust.

The clock ticks louder
than the fractures in my chest,
its hands dragging me
through an endless loop of nowhere.
Even the shadows feel stifling,
their jagged edges curling inward,
hungry to swallow me whole.

I’ve dreamt of escape -
to where the sky consumes the horizon whole,
where the wind is a reckless lover
who never lingers long.
To forests that hum with emerald light,
to cities alive with neon veins,
where my name dissolves
in the endless roar of strangers.

Anywhere but here,
where the air tightens like a noose,
where memories gnaw at my brittle bones,
where silence is a jagged scream
I cannot outrun.

I see myself on distant shores,
waves tugging at my aching ankles,
but the ocean only reflects my shadow,
unforgiving, unyielding,
dragging through every fractured sunrise.

Anywhere but here,
I whisper to the relentless night,
but even as I dream,
I feel the crushing weight of this place -
a gravity I cannot escape,
a tether carved deep into my skin,
one I’ll carry until I learn to make peace
with the prison I built.