Melaine Harvey is a poet, visual storyteller, and creative strategist whose work rises from rage, grace, and sacred survival. Born in Denver and raised in Pueblo, Colorado, she now creates from Woodbridge, Virginia, where high plains, red earth, and urban edges shape her imagery.
Her poetry is a reckoning and a sanctuary — written for those who feel too much and say too little, for the ones who flinch at love but still hope. She turns pain into flame, crafting elemental language that speaks of feathers, embers, and the sacred ache of transformation.
Rooted in divine truth and emotional honesty, Melaine’s work reflects a faith that transcends religion. Her imprint, Pyre & Petals Press, is a sanctuary for art that burns with purpose and rises in grace. She believes in the holiness of imperfection, the beauty of survival, and the radical grace of being unapologetically oneself.
Her creative process is raw and relentless. Her poems aren’t polished — they’re lived. They carry bruises, bite marks, and the kind of silence that eventually screams. Her mission is fierce and unwavering: to be the voice she needed when everything was too loud, when the pressure and pain were too much to hold. Her work doesn’t promise healing. It promises honesty. And sometimes, that’s the only thing that saves us.
Melaine Harvey is a poet, visual storyteller, and creative strategist whose work rises from rage, grace, and sacred survival. Born in Denver and raised in Pueblo, Colorado, she now creates from Woodbridge, Virginia, where high plains, red earth, and urban edges shape her imagery.
Her poetry is a reckoning and a sanctuary — written for those who feel too much and say too little, for the ones who flinch at love but still hope. She turns pain into...
These poems don’t perform beauty. They bear witness. Melaine Harvey writes for those whose lives shimmer with elegance from a distance—but under closer light, reveal sorrow, strength, and truth. Each verse is a boundary drawn in grace, a truth spoken without apology.
She writes for those who swallowed silence—and found their voice. Where anger became...
Not the cozy kind that warms your hands — but the kind that scorches, purifies, and leaves you staring at the ashes wondering what’s left of you.
I’ve learned that poetry isn’t just art. It’s survival. It’s how I’ve stitched myself back together after betrayal, grief, and the quiet ache of being misunderstood. Every line I write is a reclamation — of voice, of worth, of sacred space.
When I wrote The Phoenix and the Pyre, I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was...
