ISOLATION

By Ruben Smith

Life is a room without heating

And I sit shivering, not wanting to fix it.

My therapist is worried about me,

The way I sit through days isn’t healthy,

But it’s better than picking my skin. 

My tarot granted me a hermit,

When I asked for advice yesterday.

A golden card with a hooded figure on it,

The more I looked, the more I saw myself

Waiting, thinking, dreaming. 

But this room is so beige,

To the point that orange looks brown

And the ray of light dulls a room.

This is the perfect time to write, 

When reality is a slow-blink, and music is just

Background noise. 

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is about depression and isolation with depression, especially how it changes your view on life and how everything feels 'stale'. This poem shows the isolating, lack of energy side of depression, where you’re trying to survive and not live and life sounds like a chore. As someone who struggles with depression, and is currently going through this situation, I wanted to write this to express my feelings. 

ABOUT RUBEN: "I study English Literature and Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University. I’m 19 years old, and a trans man who has struggled with their mental health frequently and use poetry to express my emotions."

SILENCE IS GOLDEN

By Crystal Hall 

Silence is golden 

don't repeat it 

look away ... you saw it but you didn't see it.

pray it away

my voice was taken 

my mind was taken

my body was taken

my spirit was taken

no one believed me even the people involved 

convinced me that it didn't happen 

my family wanted me on medication 

so now that I did what I was told

I have nothing left just pieces of me

pieces that I'm trying desperately to fit

fit the narrative that it never happened.

I've learned that these little pills block out the truth ...these little pills replace silence with

sleep ... sleep that stole my joy and year's of my youth ... without serenity.

these little pills replace the space in my brain

with moments of peace, but in reality they are destroying the rest of what's left in me

and the one piece that's left for me is the power of prayer ... this prayer never let me down

when I'm low or unable to smile

I pray please just relax my mind ... please give me a touch of happiness just one more time

but that piece don't fi t... and just like that I'm over it ... I'm so beat down that all I have left is a Erie smile ...

just to fake the day away ... because no matter the truth this is how I push through. I can't relate to him or her or they... because I'm not me anymore ... I'm a fabrication of who I knew ...

my mental state is weak ... every bad memory leaked ... throughout all my 50 years ... unwanted tears can't protect you from what they did ... what I did ...

so now I go with the flow ... Silence is golden a even trade for laughter and peace ...

I never thought the power of prayed can reach

the evil spirit that was taunting me ...

left me shattered ... completely destroyed the Crystal in me ... I have one piece left ... it's a memory ... yeah the memory of me.

Crystal ... a young girl I never knew

Crystal ... a young woman that never grew

Crystal ... I wish I could remember the you that 

was once beautiful and creative too ...

UNTITLED

By Diane Kennedy

I’m a cold, gray day

In March.

One that might snow

Or rain

At any moment.

In the end, it does neither.

A slow, quiet breeze

That listlessly 

Lifts the pine branch

And largely goes unnoticed—

It’s of no consequence.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem expresses my feelings of insignificance and inadequacy, which have led to a lifetime of depression. 

ABOUT DIANE: Now retired, Diane spent many years working as an educator in public schools. She has published nonfiction articles and a personal essay in 'PieceWork' and 'Mary Jane's Farm' magazines, and edited technical articles for the trade journal, 'Chemical Processing'. The foundation of Diane's life has always been her husband and children.

DIVERGENT

By Nadine Dunseith

Dramatic lines that demarcate the boundary between

life and death

Where does one begin and end?

Sometimes the line is straight and true and the path to death is simple

Other times, it’s like a complicated puzzle.

The path diverges and

the edge of

Death

is just around the corner

Not sure when the time will come

Until it does

Until you’re only given one option.

It’s the last remaining puzzle piece,

To be placed perfectly.

As if Death is a

Utopia and

you’re surrounded

by whimsical

Dreams

The boundary is clear

and distinct,

divided by truth and fiction

Beginning and end

The truth is that you wish for love and freedom

The fiction is that you desire Death

And until the lines

diverge, you are stuck between light and dark.

One day,

You will be free.

STUPID GIRL

By Cynthia Foss

Stupid girl, why don't you just get over him?

Stupid girl, keep him in your heart and your future will be grim.

Stupid girl, he never thinks of you.

Stupid girl, you will break through.

Stupid girl, it's been enough time.

Stupid girl, get him out of your mind.

Strong woman, let your heart break free.

Wonderful woman, you will dance with glee.

Smart woman, your beauty truly shows.

Beautiful woman, there are even thorns on a rose.

ABOUT CYNTHIA: "I was first diagnosed with borderline personality disorder in 2002 and have struggled with mental illness pretty much my entire life. Writing has been a way of getting my emotions out onto paper. I've always wanted to possibly help someone one day through my writing."

SHATTERED

By Frea Wooten 

Some things don't work

I've witnessed it

Felt the bitter shards sting

creating that fractured spirit

when there's sun & lightning

nature skips off coarse

It's all been tried & tested

Like a frozen liquor

in a hot glass; it's a mess 

Everything gets shattered

cake & icing is pleasurable

For some that's what matters

But a sauerkraut topped pie

ruins my taste buds

MY TIME TO HEAL

By Brielle Hoban

I asked for help.

A lot to unpack.

I was hoping to make it

so brief and so fast.

Little did I know,

there was much value

in making it last.

So I delve deeper.

Letting it flow.

Losing control

and letting things go.

A voice in my corner,

confidently I arose!

Remembering the past,

regressing then re-living.

Followed by a much needed

time of repose.

My inner critic, moved back

to the shadows.

Afraid of my strength

with what I now know.

The traumas that seemed

so deep and so low,

so dark and so heavy,

from way down below.

Relentlessly resurfaced,

knocking me to the ground.

With time, patience & self compassion

Good things do come around.

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem comes from my own healing journey as I navigate my past traumas through therapy. A part of my healing process is to share my works with others. Sharing my story but also hoping others can relate and are encouraged to start their own healing journey or to continue forward. Most importantly, want to be an example that although inner work is difficult, the hard work pays off with time!"

ABOUT BRIELLE: Brielle, an emerging Artist from Fresno, California, has been painting and expressing herself through many art forms for years. With a degree in psychology, and someone who has experienced trauma and mental health challenges herself, she was inspired to share her work in hopes to help others on their healing journey.



The human that moves in a fatigue,

Talks without the sunflower in a field.

Now the anger that is present instead

Laughs easily.

Like at the conclusion of a marathon

Or the flu,

The arms and words barely wade

With forced concern.

Of my wish to kill the glum

Monster,

My emotions lack the

Attention. 

Of course, I would rather sit

And watch the world 

Pass to and fro.

Passing like when in prison. 

Of the overwhelming mental words,

The standard ones gather their few belongings

To rush out, taking their leave.

They salute and board the Titanic. 

Now the salmon swim

In the basic pool of their spawn origin.

And a rock thrown, now sinking.

A blanket settling after being tossed about in air.

Now the happiness 

seems to have shriveled.

Let us think of another possible

State of chronic being:

The opposite happiness

Makes the shriveled personality

Wonder if of course

The attention is at all given. 

Of the flowers picked in the garden,

And given to the lover,

The beautiful roses shrivel.

The hands in dirt and solicitous retrieve more though.

That the symphony that surrounds the

Beings in close proximity like the trawl nets

Makes for an uncomfortable harmony

Like depression.

The possible stage fright

In a talent show

Makes the audience boo,

Canceling my show.

Nevertheless, 

I have become acquainted

With the thoughts,

Because they make me grow.

Grow like an ambitious child that

Couldn’t hardly relinquish their motivations

For success in

Any present state.

Of my peaceful bliss,

The feeling swelling,

Like a balloon in my gut,

I can feel

And can fully understand

And predict the onset of

The balloon rupture

And the contents spilling over my mind.

Sometimes glitter rains down

All around 

But it certainly doesn't stick,

And I wish I had glue. 

However, I consider this all an allusion

To Lady Lazarus,

But, In which my attempts

Are not successful resurrections.

They are peaceful but

Recurring harrowing periods.

ABOUT TITAN: Titan is 18 years of age and a published short story writer, essayist, and poet on Teen Ink (Teen Ink is a monthly tabloid-format magazine that is marketed to, and written by, teenagers) and Genrepunk Magazine. He spends his time either drafting new ideas or reading a good book.

FADE TO GREY

By Phil Griffiths

It holds you tight, this disease. Sometimes, fleetingly, you can pull away and break to the surface, feel the warmth of the sun on your face again, only for it to drag you down into its murky depths once more, turning you over and over in a miserable, perpetual cycle.

It disconnects you from those you love, sucks the colour and energy from life. The joys of simple things ebb away to the daily drumbeat of drab monotones .

And of course, you should be happy. You have a family, two beautiful precious girls. Every reason to be joyous.

But you are dragging them down into your world so you let them go as you lose yourself. Their voices, their laughter becoming more and more distant as you drift helplessly away. Fading to grey and onward to black.

ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem about depression around 10 years ago, and reflected my experience at the time. I was in my mid 40s with a job, a wife, and too wonderful daughters, but still I felt desperate at the time. It was so illogical, made no sense but I felt I was dragging my family down with me and I was contemplating suicide at the time. I am now in a better place and more able to recognize changes in my mood so I can intervene before it becomes too black."

FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES

By Aviva Lilith 

the girl who lingers in your mind but you won’t let in,

don’t let her too close to your personal life, for all intents and purposes, 

she’s the girl made of glass

but wrapped up in metal, so it’s okay to drop her, really

she’s always leaving soon as she arrives, why can't you just forget her

your mind can’t rid those fragrant memories, ashes in a fireplace

her essence clings to things like lollipop sticks

half eaten bodies of gummy bears

only goopy legs and tail remaining

after you’ve bit the head off and sucked on it a while

she is the color that the Kool Aid turns your tongue 

purple, orange, kissy red, piercing sweet

she cups moonlight in her hands but

you seem to remember how she chased the sun

she was so dark, why always so dark, a swirling thing in her

but her laugh was light like cotton candy melting down your throat

she reminds you of the wind, the way it carries your smoke

in beautiful deadly patterns which you exhale, discarding from your body

perpetually at war with herself, descending into madness in her mind

the world, her playground

you wonder if she saw you like a doll,

something to manipulate

I promise you she tried not to see you as her’s, all she wants is friends

but you’re right; her mind is an abyss and you were smart to not fall inside



monsters have built her up like Legos 

and you do not want to be there to clean up when she falls a mess on the floor.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem is how i feel others think of me, distanced, walls up, always someone else's problem. when you are damaged, people tend to stay away from that. 

ABOUT AVIVA: Aviva is a hybrid poet from Brooklyn, USA, whose work has been published several places including Sad Girl Review, Indie Blu(e), and At the Inkwell.

WORDS

By Spruce Craft

All the words, speak

But never tell

My mind, a land so bleak

a living hell

Isolation, with intent 

As I seek

To shield my heart from disappointment

And hide the tears that leak

IL POZZO

By Anonymous

In Italy there is a very deep well

A “pozzo” as they say

Where stairs go down one side

And back up another way

Stepping down the well

Happens faster than you know

Finding your way back out again

Can be tedious… painful… slow

When I go down my well

I do it all alone

I lay there at the bottom

My head upon the stone

I will lay there for an hour…

A day… a week… or more

Dwelling on my recent decent

Laying hard upon the floor

Climbing back out is all too rare

I crawl on my knees to reach the first stair

“One step at a time” is what I have learned 

But the stairway is rugged, twisted and turned

I've never been able to scale the well 

I once saw the top, but once again fell

My struggle in this pozzo is all that I'm about

I live here now… never able to climb out.

ABOUT THE POEM: "I am a 70 year old male, and a frequent traveler to Italy. For the past 3 years I have struggled with constant issues of OCD, anxiety and depression. My poem laces my experience of descending into an old water well in Italy, to my daily feelings of living in a hole."

UNGRATEFUL BRAT

By Alex Turner

Ungrateful brat sits alone in a cold, damp room

Ungrateful brat eats gruel with a mug and spoon

Looking out the window (she's been doing that all afternoon) 

Ungrateful brat sits alone finding solace in the moon

Growing up she was told not to make flowers of weeds 

Not to tell tall tales or take more than she needs

She should always be prim and proper, a child with no needs

Bridle her passions, curtsey for strangers, and stifle her greed

Ungrateful brat is old hat when it comes to giving grace

When someone mispeaks, it falls on her to save face

She has three presents—a doll, jewelry box, and china vase

But they're too shiny for her, so she dusts them only to return each to its place 

Ungrateful brat’s dream is to be a grateful girl

To sit in a warm, yellow room where soft hands brush her curls 

But she never remembers to clean the mud from her stockings, and much worse:

Ungrateful brat can’t keep herself from wishing for that which isn’t hers

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem was inspired by my experiences with childhood neglect living in a toxic family and high demand religion while suffering from severe depression, anxiety, a deadly eating disorder, and religious OCD (scrupulosity). This poem refers to how I spent most of my time alone in my room dissociating because my reality was hard to face as a kid and the title comes from my mother, who used to tell me I was an ungrateful burden to the family. The line about eating gruel with a mug and spoon is about struggling with anorexia nervosa to cope - I ate flavorless things in small mugs instead of plates to restrict my intake (also my parents always complained about spending money on food). Overall, this poem is about how my parents made me feel like I was ungrateful for expressing my needs, so over time I learned to snuff them out and always be a giver to the family and church, not a taker. But deep down, I just wanted to be taken care of. I felt that I had to do everything just right because I thought that's how I could finally earn love. Although the poem itself is a little vague, it felt really raw and real to get out.

ABOUT ALEX: Alex is a college student currently on medical leave due to health issues, but she plans to return soon and live on her own terms.

OH NO, DON’T BE MELANCHOLY

By Titan Sanchez

Oh no, don’t be melancholy.

For the incessant whispers gather around

The dying field in a veil that makes the timid pumpkins

Of October shrivel.

The deplorable state of affairs

Marks this peaceful winter

As one with the simple power of undisturbed bliss

And glum.

With the twisted vines of shriveled grapes,

And the poignant expression from Dionysus

And the basic patronage of Oizys, thy harvest

Now scorched.

Now the basic year of winter hardly suppressed

In the minds of the “immature”,

The classic ode of Jack Frost 

And Mother Nature rings.

The basic starvation in the cabin…

Thy lover wonder’s consist of the basic thoughts

Of the current state of the Being.

And of the poignant expression of neutrality.

Although, the infinitesimal joyous motivation,

Possible of comparison to the sun—its rays

Are unfit for expression.

Unfit for higher office.

And the plain expression that

Has ravished the personality

Makes the present mood an overall

Deplorable setting.

SCREAMING IN MY MIND

By April Bartaszewicz

Again, I sit alone,

With every passing hour,

Listening to the voices in my head.

They are rude,

And unkind.

Teary eyed,

Broken hearted,

Everything all at once.

They shout,

And they yell.

I’m trying to control my thoughts.

They scream loudly at me.

I can’t focus,

I can’t think,

Then the nausea starts to creep.

Slowly it all comes together.

I feel pain and agony,

And it continues to hurt daily.

There’s nothing I can say, 

And nothing I can do,

How do I stop it all?

ABOUT APRIL: April is a single mother with a learning disability. She suffers from PTSD and is a survivor of childhood physical and sexual abuse. She lives in Wisconsin, USA, with her daughter.

THE VISIT

By Tim Boardman

Even though

He points

at crumbs

left over

from the toast

Always white

Always

The crusts

left over

I can see

Traces of

budget

jam

Smeared

on the edges

Now words

Are

Jumbled together

Even after all this

He shakes my

Hand

When meeting

And

Shakes my

Hand

As I leave

Tears

In his eyes

Remembering

Something

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