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The VowKeeper

@thevowkeepersgraveyard

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Hey, I’m Spen
Welcome to the graveyard 🥀
No sugar. No apologies. Just words that burn, truths that stay.

POSTS STORIES REELS

I keep the words most people are too afraid to say.
Love. Loss. Rage. Hope. The vows we make, the ones we break, and the ones that change us forever.

This space is for the honest heart—the one that feels too much, remembers too much, and still chooses to keep going.

Here, stories are both wound and balm. Here, you’ll find pieces of yourself in the dark and the light.

Stay if you’re looking for something real. You’re safe here.
#writersofinstagrampoetry #writersofinstagram #safespaces #ragewritingastherapy by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

Everyone always says, “You dodged a bullet.”

Which is bullshit.

I’ve never dodged a goddamn thing in my life.

It went through me.

All of it.

Every heartbreak. Every betrayal. Every loss. Every person I loved that I eventually had to let go of. Every version of myself I had to bury just to become someone who could keep going.

I didn’t dodge the bullets.
I got hit.

And then I figured out how to keep fucking walking.

Sometimes I got strong enough to carry what happened to me.

And sometimes I realized carrying it was killing me, so I had to put it down.

But nothing I’ve ever let go of was easy.

Every season of my life has my blood, sweat, and tears on it.

There are claw marks where I fought to stay.

There are teeth marks where I refused to be swallowed whole.

There are pieces of me scattered across places, people, and versions of my life that I loved with everything I had.

So no, I didn’t dodge a bullet.

I survived the impact.

And if I eventually walked away from it, it wasn’t because it didn’t hurt.

It’s because I finally understood that surviving something doesn’t mean I have to keep carrying it.

I have scars from almost everything I’ve ever loved.

But I’m still here.

And these days, that’s enough proof for me that I won.

#vowkeeper #healinginprogress #poet #writersofinstagram by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

THE VOWKEEPER’S GRAVEYARD

Not a graveyard of people.

A graveyard of promises.

Of versions of myself.

Of names I once answered to.

Of lives I thought I would live.

Of people I loved until there was nothing left of me to give them.

Every headstone remembers something.

I loved someone here.

I failed someone here.

I became someone here.

I survived this.

And at the very back of the graveyard stands one blank stone.

No name.

No date.

No epitaph.

Nothing.

Because I haven’t decided what version of me will be buried there yet.

Maybe it will be the girl who spent her whole life apologizing for surviving.

Maybe it will be the woman who thought she had to bleed for every promise she ever made.

Or maybe

for once

there won’t be anyone buried there at all.

Because the Vowkeeper was never meant to live in the graveyard.

She was only meant to remember what was buried there.

And walk out. by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

The Children of the Unfinished Grave

Once, the world made a mistake.
It let a few of us linger
souls meant to cross the river
but caught in its shallows instead.
We are the echoes that learned to breathe again,
the almost-dead wearing borrowed flesh.

Perhaps Fate tangled her threads that night,
perhaps Death grew weary and let his scythe fall still,
or perhaps we were simply too stubborn
to go quietly.

We walk this earth as remnants,
feeling everything that was meant to end
the grief that rots,
the love that festers,
the pulse of a heart that refuses to be silent.

The world cannot hold us.
It was never built for souls like ours
too heavy with memory,
too loud with sorrow,
too alive to be dead,
too dead to be alive.

So we haunt instead.
We love like revenants,
hurt like myths,
and breathe like blasphemy
each inhale an act of defiance,
each exhale a reminder:

we were never supposed to stay,
and yet,
we do. by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

They call us the lazy generation.
As if apathy was our birthright.
As if we woke up one day and chose to stop caring.

They say we don’t want to work,
don’t want families,
don’t want houses,
don’t want the weight they wore like armor.
They call us selfish for not wanting to drown in the same sea
that swallowed them whole.

But we’re not lazy.
We’re haunted.
We were born tired.

Tired of fixing what they broke.
Tired of paying for mistakes we didn’t make.
Tired of dragging our half-healed bodies
through a world that calls our exhaustion weakness.

We were born into chaos,
swaddled in debt and depression,
baptized in burnout.
They gave us poisoned air to breathe
and then laughed when we started choking.

They told us to work harder.
To smile more.
To earn what they inherited.

We work until our backs split.
We love until it kills us.
We starve quietly and call it discipline.
We burn out young and call it ambition.
We call survival “success”
and still get told we aren’t enough.

They don’t see it
how many of us are dying in slow motion.
How many of us would rather disappear
than keep pretending we’re fine.

We are the children of collapse,
and still they wonder why we crumble.

What happened?

Their fire burned the world to cinders
and called it progress.
And now we crawl through the ash,
lungs bleeding, hearts cracked,
trying to find something worth saving.

We are not lazy.
We are survivors of a generation that mistook suffering for strength.
And we are so, so fucking tired
of being blamed for the smoke they left behind.
#vowkeeper #writersofinstagrampoetry #lazygeneration #inheritance by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

I swallowed every shadow of our childhood so he could pretend the dark was never real. I took the blows, the screaming, the kind of pain that stains a person’s insides. I made myself the shield so he could stay soft. The black spot on my soul isn’t a flaw, it’s a monument to everything I survived so he didn’t have to.

And he wants to call me a deadbeat?
For finally speaking the truth he’s too cowardly to face?

Fine.
Call me broken.
Call me ruined.
But don’t you dare forget
I broke myself so he could stay intact.

He isn’t a child anymore.
So if he wants to throw dirt, he better remember who dug the grave we both crawled out of.

My blood salted the earth he walks on. My sweat built the walls that protect him. My tears washed the nightmares out of his sleep. I made sure he could breathe while I suffocated under the weight of keeping us alive.

He is my heart and with one word he proved he never deserved the way I loved him.

But me?
I am the storm they tried to drown.
I am the monster they created to protect the innocent parts of him.
I am still here, fangs sharpened.

So if he thinks his betrayal will break me?

Please.
For the girl who’s already died a thousand times and keeps crawling out of the grave?

It’s just another Wednesday
#writersofinstagrampoetry #siblingtrauma #childhood_memories #estranged #trending #vowkeeper by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

A personalized commissioned piece.

The Girl in Plaid

A little girl with curls untamed,
eyes the color of summer skies,
spun barefoot through the dusty yard
where chickens clucked their lullabies.

Her dress was plaid, her laughter wide,
she twirled in fields that bent with breeze.
Dreams bloomed like clover in her hands—
a farm, a love, a life with ease.

She fed the hens with gentle palms,
imagined barns and wedding rings.
Her heart was stitched from prairie light,
her soul was made of simple things.

But time grew still, the hourglass broke,
her story halts where shadows creep.
Forever six, forever dreaming,
forever locked in endless sleep.

A little girl with curly hair,
the sky forever in her eyes.

#girlinplaid #vowkeeper #writersofinstagram #trendingnow #griefpoemsforparents #forever6 by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

Maybe I’m just high. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m both.
But the blood in me won’t shut up—
it drags me back to somewhere I’ve never been
but have always belonged.

I see evergreens taller than memory,
their needles dripping shadows like knives.
The air reeks of smoke and cedar,
a warning disguised as incense.

There is a hush there—
not peace, not rest—
but the kind of silence that creeps under your skin,
that settles in your throat like a secret you shouldn’t know.
A silence that was stolen from the holy,
and left behind for the hungry.

Maybe I’m just high. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m both.
But I remember the unholy hush.
I remember the blood that isn’t mine.
And I wonder if I’ve been walking this whole life
with ghosts in my veins.
#vowkeeper #inheritance #reincarnation #writersofinstagram #poetry #soul by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

In the beginning, God created man.
But man was not complete.
So from his rib, God created woman—
not as an afterthought, but as intention.
Bone of his bone. Flesh of his flesh.
The missing piece that gave him meaning.

Woman is not secondary.
She is purpose.
She is the compass of strength,
the reason battles are fought,
the reason homes are built,
the reason love endures.

And in return, she carries legacies.
She turns survival into story,
huts into homes,
ashes into beauty,
scars into futures.

Man may be strength.
But strength without purpose crumbles.
And woman—
woman is the purpose.
#writersofinstagrampoetry #vowkeeper #sleeptoken #poetsoninstagram by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

I know I would have been a devoted mother. I know I would have raised children radiant with love, with warmth, with that rare kind of kindness that rewrites the world just by touching it. They would have been my greatest work, my proof that love can grow where ruin once lived.

But blood does not lie. And mine is thick with tragedy. My DNA is a map of every wound that came before me, every curse carved into our family tree. No matter how fiercely I would love, no matter how carefully I would build them up, the rot would find its way through the cracks. It always does.

The cruelest truth is that the greatest inheritance I have to give is also the most poisonous. My children would carry not only my devotion, but my darkness. They would inherit the ruin braided into my veins.

And so the curse continues: love that could have saved the world, tethered forever to a lifeline of decay.
#vowkeeper #childlessbehaviour #mother #infertility #writersofinstagrampoetry #writersofinstagram by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

The Curse Breakers Manifesto

We are the generation of curse breakers.
Born from silence, shame, and cycles that were never meant to end,
we chose to stand in the wreckage and breathe life back into living.

We are darker, because shadows taught us how to survive.
We are queerer, because love is not a box, it is a spectrum.
We are stronger, because we were told we were weak.
We are louder, because the world tried to make us whisper.

We choose happiness,
not because it was handed to us,
but because it is rebellion to find joy in a place
that wanted us broken.

We are not afraid of endings.
We will watch the dinosaurs die again—
not the prehistoric ones,
but the relics in power,
the fossils who had every chance to change
and chose the comfort of cruelty instead.

We will not be them.
We will not inherit their silence,
their hatred,
their refusal to grow.

We are the curse breakers.
The cycle ends with us
#generationaltrauma #vowkeeper #thespacebetweenus #mindovermatter #writerscommunityofinstagram by @thevowkeepersgraveyard

Life was never meant to be easy—
it was meant to be a ledger of choices,
each one etched into our skin like tally marks.
They tell us it’s simple: follow your heart, do good,
and the world will unfold kindly.

But the truth is harsher.
Every decision is a blade.
Choose wrong and you bleed.
Choose right and you still scar.
Ease was a lie we were sold to soften the blow.

Life isn’t about happiness.
It’s about endurance.
About how much ache a body can hold
before it splits open,
and what kind of creature
crawls out of the wreckage when it does.
#vowkeeper #life #writerscommunityofinstagram #poetryislove by @thevowkeepersgraveyard