How I Wrote My Poetry Book Small Mercies

I wrote a poetry book. Yeah, me. Not a novel, not some self-help thing, but actual poems that live in a real-life book. It’s called Small Mercies.

The process was messy. I wrote most of it late at night in my room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a tea that was probably too hot and a notebook that’s now full of terrible sketches, half-thoughts, and lines I’ll never publish. I’d write a line, read it aloud, cringe, rewrite it, delete it, rewrite it again. And then 3 a.m. hits and I’m like… good enough, I guess.

It’s funny because poetry is supposed to be this elevated, mystical thing, right? People act like it’s divine revelation. But for me, it was just me trying to put words to things I didn’t even fully understand myself ... feelings, nights I couldn’t sleep, fights that left me furious but kind of thrilled, tiny moments of happiness that felt like cheating.

I think what surprises people is that writing it wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t sitting in a café with a latte and a scarf, staring out the window. I was sitting on my floor, surrounded by textbooks and half-eaten snacks, typing on my laptop while Danny Gonzalez played in the background. Writing poetry isn’t always a spiritual experience! Sometimes it’s just surviving the day and needing words to cling to.

And the title? Small Mercies isn’t just a line that sounded cute. It’s the thesis of the book. Life throws a lot at you, mostly unnecessary, mostly inconvenient, sometimes devastating. I wanted to write about the small victories because they’re worth noticing.

Publishing it was even weirder. There’s a point where your words leave your control, and suddenly people are reading your private thoughts, your little admissions, your embarrassing confessions. And the thing is… it’s thrilling. Like, terrifying, but thrilling. People can love it, hate it, or scroll past it entirely. And that’s okay. Because at the end of the day, the point wasn’t validation it was articulation, confession, obsession, obsession, obsession.

And honestly? I think that’s why I loved writing it. Not because I wanted to be a “poet” or anything fancy, but because it forced me to pay attention. To my own life. To the people I love. To myself. To the tiny mercies I might otherwise overlook.

So yeah, I wrote a poetry book. Small Mercies.