Part 1: The End
I was born with witch hands
between zeros and ones
a wide oak with full floral bloom
iridescent spotlight on the crown in my cradle
bestowed conditionally by withered decree
drawn in white lines by whiter hands
before time could dream me into place.
DO NOT DEVIATE FROM THE PATH.
Crafted by crumbling oath takers
who swear my fealty to their cause.
Poison clouds pour from infected mouths
and now I hate
the flowers they painted on me
creeping tendrils choke the source
blacken trees in a forested hellmouth
the flowers unmake themselves.
Moonlit monsters hold court
build monuments to the self-made martyrs
gaslit palisades shield free-range pain dealers
damage on their tongues and mystery minds
vents made to open under pressure
locked by a devil in a glass half full
high voltage hatred fuses glittering sands
time is lost to the halftone scrawl of rule makers.
I was made to fly but they tarred my feathers
dropped in the rapids and told to go with the flow
but the flow shatters a broken branch like me.
White noise on manmade rocks
diagnosed with non-conformity
while in possession of a womb
my sickness is their drug
but the world is ill.
can’t catch my breath, but my choking is too loud
can’t find my step, but I should dissipate the cloud
can’t hear my voice, but I should regulate my sound
can’t find my peace; I should bow before the hounds
can’t reach my dreams, but my masters should be proud
Heavy is the clown that wears the crown
lost is the mind they tried to drown.
Part 2: The Beginning
This reformed witch cloak
worn fluid and full grown
envelops a wiser oak bursting with colour
irreverent spotlight on the crown I earned
forged by the words I opened myself to
walking between hallowed lines
time dreamed alongside me.
I paved my own path and mapped the songs
created in collaboration with freedom fighters
that lit a flame to give voice to the voiceless
beauty radiates from healing scars
I am in love with colours I paint.
The creeping darkness lingers
obsidian tendrils pulling at my veins
but the flowers remade themselves.
The moon is no longer my monster
grief made its home and I bury the martyrs
the death eaters ran out of gas
bite their tongues until minds run free
vent diamonds with repression overturned
open vistas unlocked by war torn warriors
conjure shimmering castles on the sand
pain moves with the tide on its own time
still, damaged wings might never feel the sky.
This broken branch found a new river
carved itself into a living dream
now the rocks move with me
furious crescendo or hushed lullaby
in a body that does not define me
my sickness is a fluid piece of my story
the world still has time to heal.
I don’t need to smile to elevate your day
my choices are mine to break or make
my passion is not an aggressive stance
my dissent is not an act of violence
I am not responsible for your ignorance
Happy is the jester that holds the room
here is the mind they tried to drown.
Kat Beeton
Kat is a poet, performer and producer currently studying an MA in Creative Writing at Birkbeck. Serving as the poet laureate for Peterborough 2022-23, they are a spoken word artist exploring themes of trauma, gender and identity. They also manage Fluid Lines Creative, whose new online platform for creative submissions is launching in 2026.