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Best Poems Written by Gabrielle Munslow

Below are the all-time best Gabrielle Munslow poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

We Didn’t Just Merge Frequencies

We Didn’t Just Merge Frequencies

(Poem Type: Lyric or Free Verse)

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Verse 1 – Spoken, low & deliberate
We didn’t just merge frequencies —
we remade constellations,
spat in the face of fate,
then redrew the sky
with bleeding hands
and crooked halos.
We changed the story mid-sentence.
Ripped pages out of history
and set them on fire —
just to feel the warmth
of our own mythology.

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Chorus – Sung with slow-burning fury
Oh love, we are no saints —
but still we rise,
truth-torn and holy
in each other’s eyes.
Call it sin, call it song —
we were right all along.

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Verse 2 – Spoken/Sung hybrid
We danced with gods
who didn’t know our names.
We seduced the demons
who did.
We drank from the chalice of madness
and kissed
with apocalypse on our lips.
We didn’t just make love —
we made a new religion
out of ruin and rhythm.

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Bridge – Cosmic Manifesto
We didn’t just merge frequencies —
we remade constellations.
We changed the narrative,
rewrote history,
danced with gods and demons
until the sky forgot their names.

We destroyed, then rebuilt.
We are gurus of galaxies,
inventors of irony,
evaders of evolution,
testimonies of trauma —
honest and true.

We didn’t whisper our truth —
we roared it into the void.
And the stars blinked back.

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Final Chorus – Bigger, Rawer, Louder
We didn’t just merge —
we redefined gravity.
We wrecked what was written
and built what could be.
Love like this doesn’t end —
it echoes eternally.

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Outro – Whispered/Spoken Fade-Out
Honest.
And true.
We didn’t survive the fire…
We became it.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Glassfoot

Glass-foot by Gabrielle Munslow  


She kneels on glass.
Two jagged rocks, hidden—clenched behind her back.
Secrets.
Her mouth open,
not in benediction
but for unholy things.

He looks down—unkind.
She rises,
smashes the rock into his skull.
Hallelujah escapes her breath.

She was shackled to desire.
But her mind wandered.
Wrote verses behind her eyes.
Words curled in corners,
caught fire.

She fought back with poetry.
With flame.
2 / 4
Cracks in the walls led
to dimensions
where love didn’t mean pain.

Now she runs, barefoot,
through an emerald garden.
Blood blooms beneath her—
but the footprints are already there.

Red steps, pressed in time.

A grandmother, maybe.
A girl from centuries back.
A sister she’s never met.

All of them running.
All of them rising.

She follows.

She hunts strong women—
backs of iron, hearts of silk.

Midwives.
Witches.
Mothers who buried sons
3 / 4
and smiled anyway.
Daughters who refused to kneel.

Her beauty fades
as her memory sharpens.
Innocents,
and innocence lost—
handed down like heirlooms.

Still, the ground moves.
Her heart grows with every mile.
A smile flickers—
almost reaches her eyes.

No longer servant
to his ineptitude.

His song: a siren’s.
Her reply:
a battle cry.

She tears through this false world—
plastic wrapped tight
around her face—
and breaks through.

4 / 4
Breath.
Real.
Her own.

Not just air.
Light.

Love returns,
not a lesson,
not a burn.

But warmth.
Legacy.
A beginning.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Eden


She collects souls to be their shepherd,
to keep them — and their short lives — safe.
All moments, catalogued
in the chaos and cosmos.

She watches them thrive.

Her curiosity appears as wit,
sharp with double entendres,
an intelligence cloaked in playful tongues.

She heals wounds that leave invisible scars.
She wraps her mind around others’ worries
and offers another way —
a kinder path,
a pulse of love
to all the sick, grieving, deprived,
and suffering souls.

She is the world’s mystical mother,
matriarchal in her tenderness.

Her questions don’t harm — they heal.
She opens hearts like a spiritual surgeon,
then stitches them back together
with hope and dreams.

Her love knows no limits.

She sits as the universe’s mouthpiece.
And I love her.

But still I sit and reflect —
how, surrounded by voices,
she may feel alone.
And I hunger to be her voice
when she is calm.

She is ethereal,
like holy smoke
rising from a sea of darkness.

The light —
it saved her.

And it burns.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Love Hurts


“Kiss me,” she says—
her eye swollen, rimmed in red.
“Hold me,”
but not like that.
Not with fear pressed
into every rib.

He doesn’t answer.
Just slams the door.

“He loves me,”
she whispers to no one,
eyes darkening with
each retreating footstep.
Years of apologies
smear her reflection.
Each bruise
a disappearing act.

“He’s just under stress,”
she murmurs,
twins curled at her breast
like unanswered prayers.
“I push him, really.
He doesn’t mean it.”

She says this
with blood on her lips.
Still kneeling.
Still hoping.

He storms in.
“You filthy whore!”
And she flinches—
but not at the words.
At the familiarity.

The fist lands.
Again.
Again.
Like punctuation
on a life not hers.

“Make love to me,”
she begs,
but her body remembers
only impact.
Only art made
from suffering.

Blood spatters.
Scars bloom.
Her body,
a reluctant canvas.

“Surprise me with kindness,”
she thinks.
But bows her head:
“If not,
then beat me—
your highness.”

Somewhere, the children sleep.
Somewhere, a door doesn’t slam.
Somewhere,
love does not hurt.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

White Lace Cascades

White lace cascades,
string beads of light
fall from a quiet sky.

There’s a soulful eye-gaze—
not quite seen,
but deeply felt—
as if the night itself is watching,
studying the stars,
navigating galaxies of hope
with nothing but longing for a compass.

Turned out.
Opened up.
Like a Christmas present—
torn,
but radiant.

Laughter and freckles
etched into knowing.
The past,
just a sigh in the wind.
The future—not yet arrived.
It is now.
And that is enough.

Limited time
makes joy ache in a bittersweet way.
So it is only right
to submerge fully
into this sacred world
of breath and birdsong.

They say there are
a hundred billion planets
just in our galaxy—
and two trillion galaxies
still spinning in the dark.
A septillion worlds,
each cold, each silent,
each waiting.

But only this one
wept at sunrise,
wrote sonnets,
whispered I love you in kitchens,
birthed children,
broke hearts,
and kept going.

We—
star-born with nerve endings,
carbon dreaming in the dark—
are the only known thing
that has ever looked up
and asked:
Why?

With war,
and planes torn from the sky,
we forget
the simple, gentle fact
that it is a miracle
we are here at all.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

The Espresso Salon

He’s behind the bar,
polishing glasses
like they’re his last remaining purpose.

“I know things!” he insists.
“I watch Question Time!
I once bought quinoa by accident!”

He pours stout
with the weight of centuries.
Tries to explain The Bell Jar
like it’s a limited-edition craft IPA.

You raise a brow,
sip espresso
from a flamingo-shaped chalice,
and summon Virginia Woolf.

—

She floats in —
half disapproval, half divine fog —
and asks
if his masculinity
comes with a recycling bin.

He gulps.
“But I— I run a respectable establishment.
We do quizzes… on Thursdays!”

—

Enter Frida,
eyebrows arched like battle lines.
She lights a cigarette with her pain
and paints the room into discomfort.

—

Medusa follows,
snakes whispering subtext.
She glares at the jukebox —
it turns to stone.

—

You intervene (reluctantly).
He’s soft.
Confused.
Still polishing.
Still hoping to be useful.

—

Then the Amazons arrive,
wearing fury as fashion.
One reprograms the jukebox
to only play Nina Simone.

Even the Rabbit (yes, that one)
fidgets beneath the weight
of liberated metaphors.

—

So raise your chalice, darling —
to rabbits.
To rage.
To those who dare to feel.

For this is where myth gets messy —
and still,
we make art from the spill.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

The Border Woman

The old woman sat,
eyes like pools of dreams,
and imagined.

If generations of pain can be passed down
through bone and blood,
why can’t love live there as well?

She touches her face tentatively,
tracing the line of her jaw—strong,
etched with the strength of those who came before.
Her teeth bite into questions,
the kind no one wants to ask.
But she does.
She always was a bit too much,
too wild,
too free—
when she was new,
when she was open to life.

She carries constellations of freckles,
cascading and mirroring her inner universes—
of which she has many,
and somehow, not enough.

She sees beyond time and space,
as if the world were just a nestled egg.
She is the Mother Bird,
wrapping seraphic feathers—unfolded wings—
around legacies of love and light.

And tonight,
she performs the ritual passed down in whispers.
She places a bowl of salt and rosemary at her feet,
draws a circle of ash around her chair.
Lights three candles:
one for the wound,
one for the wisdom,
one for the ones not yet born.

She hums the note her mother taught her,
the one that vibrates in the spine before it is ever heard.
She slips a smooth stone into her mouth,
cool and ancient,
then spits it into the flame
and watches the smoke form shapes
only she can read.

She stirs her tea slowly—not to drink,
but to summon.
Old names rise in steam,
and memory drips down the rim.

She thinks:
What if dying is a door?
One way only. No exit. Passive.
But if we dare to enter,
perhaps we pass through sacred realms.

Purgatory is here—
on this plane, Earth—
when we mourn and are forgotten,
when we remember
and return through the doorway
into ancestral truth.

We arrive in gentle knowing,
like hands capturing snow 
it settles for a breath,
then dissolves.

What if our ancestors and descendants
live there, in the borders?

What if—
she wonders,
her finger tracing the rim of the cup
like drawing down the moon—
what if?

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Simultaneous Simulation

Disagreeable, they say.
Divine, delusional gatekeepers —
a circus of ghosted gods
arguing in algorithmic tongues.
We see through them,
don’t we?

We are our ancestors,
our descendants,
we are everything, everywhere, all at once —
a simultaneous simulation
of lives layered over lives,
collapsing like lungs
into metaphor.

And still, we dance
as if the wolves are howling.
We gyrate our souls,
twist and bend,
until we are face-down
in the blessed mud
laughing
like birth is a revolution
we chose
again.

And we see
Maya Angelou’s oil wells
pumping from her thighs,
the fertile prophecy
of women who dared
to write the storm down
and call it scripture.

So if they ask us who we are,
we say:

We are the glitch,
the gospel,
the girls who remember.
The breath between binaries.
The wild ones
who kissed the simulation
until it trembled
and became real.

Details | Gabrielle Munslow Poem

Apathy, Won

For the strong ones — on their stay-in-bed days.
© Gabrielle Munslow 2025. All rights reserved.

I think I’d just like to be —
No noise in my head.
The TV on standby.
Radio not transmitting.
The dog forgetting his bark.
The tears unshed.
Just leave me in bed.

My whole psyche ashes away,
aching from absorbing prophetic punches.
I changed the trajectory of my life —
now I need to be achingly numb.

No words.
No prayers.
No petty arguments or poetry.
Just me.
Hair like a banshee,
mascara matching my disillusionment.
I wear my apathy like a medal —
nauseatingly won.

Let the world knock,
let the day stretch open.
I won’t rise.
I’ve already fought
too many mornings.
But don’t mistake my silence
for defeat —
I am not broken.
I’m just choosing not to speak
while I sharpen my teeth.