Featured Poetry - June, 2026

STUCK RECORD

By Anthony Ward

No sooner do I talk myself into something

I talk myself out of it again

Positives playing against each other

Until the negative attracts

Pulling me away from myself

So that I need to push harder

Heading into the gale of thoughts

As they try to keep me back

The indecisiveness a perpetual emotion

Ebbing back and forth like spring tides

And neap tides

At times overwhelming

At times serene

Both drifting and demented

By the fluctuations of my mind

The low tides like a stuck record

Keeping me in the same place

Interrupting the flow of my thoughts

Disturbing the serenity of the song.



COMING OUT OF A DEPRESSION

By Dana Fasciano

And suddenly the sun rises,

how long 

it has been 

since you’ve seen it.

Years

of that desperate darkness

that pressed on you 

until your whole body

was numb, 

Until everything around you

looked gray and dirty 

and broken. 

When it rises,

it rises slowly,

gracefully,

tentatively. 

And suddenly you can see

color again.

Suddenly everything is dazzling:

the clearness of the sky,

or the sound of the rain falling

on the roof

like a million tiny fingers tapping

on a table. 

even the way that car head lights

twinkle and glow

like a holiday display. 

Let its warm light 

wash over your tired skin

Let it cradle you

gently

until you are fully alive,

until you are sturdy,

until suddenly 

you are

someone 

again. 

You try

to hold onto this,

the warmth,

the light,

the color,

and the memory

that it will always 

return. 

MONDAY MORNING

By Tim Boardman

It’s Monday morning

and I’m driving to work,

mind back somewhere

along Breary Lane.

The windscreen’s sticky—

sap from the trees above the car at home.

I should clean it

but it only smears

and I haven’t slept.

It’s 7:10.

I can still see

the ghost of my dad

walking

at the bottom

of Breary Lane.

Old song on the radio—

I know it,

it seeps into the commute.

Dad is

on the way

to buy a Yorkshire Post,

cloth cap

slightly askew.

Always that cap.

Old man, take a look at my life

I’m a lot like you were

I catch him

in the wing mirror—

shirt and tie,

that familiar waddle.

Strange—

I never wear a tie.

Never have.

Not out of principle,

just sheer bloody mindlessness.

I need someone to love me

the whole day through

Head down,

determined

to beat the newsagent.

Never had it delivered,

not until the end of Bramhope.

He’d try to slip away,

always trying to get back

to a house

from years ago—

some version of home.

I’ve been first and last

Look at how the time goes past

And I drive on,

leaving him

in the rearview blur

ABOUT TIM:  Tim, a poet from Otley, West Yorkshire, crafts lyrical, intimate pieces that illuminate ordinary life, blending reflection, memory, and gentle storytelling into moments of subtle emotional resonance. A devoted family man, Tim balances his life between his roles as husband, father, teacher, and poet. His work celebrates those intersections — where care meets creativity, and where everyday life becomes poetry.

FB: http://facebook.com/groups/588235645977509 

THE ATTIC

By Alan Gumbley

Stumbling through my attic,

I haven’t been here in a while.

So many different boxes, most of them fragile,

So many things stored in this room I’d forgotten existed,

Cobweb-covered memories, beams and walls so dark and twisted.

It’s silent in this space tonight, the moonlight through the cracks,

A room filled with such disarray, yet the boxes neatly stacked.

As my steps are filled with caution, vulnerability exposed,

Not long till I’m reminded why this room stays firmly closed.

The first shelves filled with trauma, labelled from the age sixteen,

With dusty bags of guilt and shame, all tattered in between.

The wooden ceilings are rotten and the floorboards are a state.

Structurally warped as if the room can’t hold its own weight.

The taste is thick and heavy making it hard to breathe.

Yet a longing to venture further overrides the urge to leave.

The shelves go on forever — feels like I’ve been up here for years,

Different containers litter every turn reading regrets, failures, and fears.

Some boxes left unpacked and some firmly locked and sealed.

A numbness leads my footsteps I’m finding it hard to feel.

It’s dark in here with no clear path so easy to get lost.

If happiness is linked to butterflies then I think mine just turned into moths.

Piles of shoes I used to walk in,

A pair of storm damaged boots.

Broken plant pots with dead flowers stem from deeply planted roots.

I thought that I’d thrown all this out; I was sure that these were gone.

Why am I still holding on to this — I thought that I’d moved on?

Jars of tears, still wet and clear, lay on the rafters up above,

Sealed with stoppers made of promises, ribboned with years of misplaced love.

The air is suffocating here; the walls are dark and dull.

A box labelled Lessons Learnt is next — not much in here, just half full.

An unfinished painting titled My Self Worth hangs on the wall,

In tones of black, grey, and rust — no bright colours at all.

Next, there are some pictures of my father, far too few to mention,

Stapled to a torn-up note and envelope marked Seeking Attention.

A book lies to the side, full of questions I never asked.

I really should have opened that before the day he passed.

Sometimes up here I hear his voice, as if he’s by my side —

It’s ironic; I feel him closer now than when he was alive.

A small pocket watch, sealed tight, engraved with Forgive and Forget —

I’ve never had the strength or time to prise that open yet.

A mirror in the corner; the glass is broken, hard to see.

Every time I’ve looked in it, I’ve seen a different me.

Maybe I should fix the glass, but that takes skill and close inspection;

It would be nice someday to take a look and see a true reflection.

Upon entering this room tonight, I wanted to declutter plenty,

But now I fear if I throw them out, the space would feel too empty.

Maybe next time will be different, but for now I’ll let it be —

I feel safer knowing it exists somewhere I cannot see.

Time to leave — been here too long; for now, this room can wait.

I hope someday I find the reasons needed to redecorate.

The moonlight’s turned to sunshine, casting its shadow wide,

So I’ll close the attic door once more — all its contents locked inside.



WE HEAR YOU

By James Aitchison

You say the world is too much for you,

you say you are a burden,

you say you are not worthy.

But your story matters,

every word of it.

You will not lose your way

in the darkness!

Fear not for the future, my friend,

love and light cure soul sickness.

HEY GIRL

By Adah

Hey girl,

It’s almost 9.20.

By this time, you must be feeling sleepy.

“Ampun mak, ampun ayah, assalamualaikum.”

“Don’t sleep before I do”, that’s your nightly custom.

The day has been great,

You play, you explore and you create.

Yet your mind still wonders,

Why is life so unfamiliar.

So you snuck in books under your pillow,

to read, to write, all my sorrow.

“Where am I?” “Why am I here?”

No one’s listening, you hear no answer.

So you wish, and you pray, 

Every single night, every single day,

“This is not home, I don’t wanna stay.”

“I just can’t see beyond this clay.”

“O my LORD, take me away.”

“This is not home, please, I don’t wanna stay.”

So you write, and you write,

Till one day you were found.

And you see fear in their sight,

Disappointment in their tone.

Fear of losing you, dear girl.

Because they love you, dear soul.

So you feed into their fear,

Reluctant, but submitted to their anger.

But never once, the aching disappear,

Never once were you out of fire.

Hey girl,

Today I realized, I am you.

That girl, who always fought to be true.

I am sorry that you felt abandoned,

Trust me, you were never forgotten.

In all darkness, it’s you who stays clear,

In all struggles, we are now here ...

... together.

So, I am writing to that courageous girl,

Who was never tired in letting her mind wander,

With all of me, I am now with her,

Her questions and pain, her longing and desire.

I am you dear girl, you are me.

We are one, and always have been.

The pain is ours, flowers of our journey,

The ache and longing, lights to help us see.

Today I submit to you dear girl,

And you to me, my angel.

Not just the pain, and the tears,

But all the excitement, and the wonders.

To explore, to question, to taste life.

To stretch, to expand, to live with love.

Dear girl, I am you.

And you are me.

And we are true. 

We can just be.

ABOUT THE POEM: 'Hey Girl' is a letter to my younger self about childhood emotional pain, faith, and the ongoing process of inner‑child healing – moving from feeling unwanted and 'too much' to reclaiming curiosity, desire, and the capacity to live with love. I hope it might resonate with others on their own mental health journeys.

ABOUT ADAH: "I am a researcher and educator based in Malaysia, and writing has become part of my practice of healing, self‑understanding and meaning forming."

THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS

By Rosie Turner

As I watch through the looking glass, The panic is real. 

I try screaming, crying and talking but it, just makes me feel unreal.

I try tapping, smashing, hitting, and punching, but the glass just seems to just grow thicker. 

I try moving, waving, and signing, to grab some attention.

But It just gets blurrier. 

I’m trapped inside the looking glass, and like a maze I can’t seem to find an escape.

Communication is not a option when I’m behind the looking glass, that blocks everything out of the way. 

It’s glass that cuts me off from the wires of my brain, 

I'm kept a prisoner, held hostage behind my eyes, I’m kept captive behind the looking glass in the back of my brain.

I’m sat confined in a separate space,

every moment feels so empty and far away.

Things don’t seem real when viewing from the looking glass.

And it never seems to go away.

I sit and watch in a gallery with a far-side view. 

A familiar abstract painting the world seems to be around me and you. 

So when you catch me watching through the looking glass, and wonder what I see,

It’s like a fuzzy cloud of a dream.

I have no control, or anywords to say, 

Because behind the looking glass, I can’t find my way. 

So watch out for the looking glass, see if you can notice any change. 

I look out of the looking glass and suddenly find my way, 

But the shards from the looking glass never seem to leave my brain.

ABOUT THE POEM: The poem is based on my personal experiences of dissociation, trauma, and living with Functional Neurological Disorder (FND). I wrote it to help people understand what these experiences can feel like from the inside, particularly when communication becomes difficult and the world feels distant or unreal. My hope is that the poem will help others who experience dissociation feel seen and understood, while also raising awareness among family members, carers, healthcare professionals, and the wider public. Just because a condition cannot always be seen on a scan or test, does not mean it is not real, and I am passionate about helping to increase understanding of invisible neurological conditions.

SELF HARM

By Gabriela Sanderson

You do not need

the messiness of blood,

the sticky flowing of its iron smell

when sweet sugar is

colder than serrated blades,

than pins drawn

up and down your tender flesh,

your naked arms

punctured by needles.

You feed your hunger

fearsome fats

and stoke the silent music

of calories

with comfort food,

then escape mirrors

covered like

church images on Good Friday.

When the night kicks you

out of bed

into the eyelids of insomnia

and forgettable TV,

you forget that certain pills

do not collocate

with gin and tonic

or with white wine,

you follow

yawning lost sheep

until the morning

of bright daylight.

And you know

the kisses from the sun

are not French kisses

on your innocent skin,

but still dare it

like unprotected sex.

Girl, what have you done

to your body,

your beautiful body,

your temple

that was

that could be

that should be

once again

sacred?

LOSING MYSELF

By Shankar Khatiwada

I am losing myself , I am not being me 

Psychotic cycle, depression dragged me down to knee 

Reading Bible, worshipping the god may be the key 

To overcome what I face and to live normally 

But I can't keep my focus on one thing, 

I get distracted easily 

I tried to join the gym and get well physically 

But I lost my interest in two weeks 

I have been down mentally 

Fighting with the thoughts that testing me

I ain't writing these words jestingly 

I been trying to tell you what I barely speak 

I whisper the truth I tried to hide

There is no single day when I feel not to die 

I don't wanna live, I don't feel anything right 

But before I leave I want to destroy everything that comes in my sight 

To this version of me, I myself stayed in fright 

I can't even face the day let's not talk about the night 

Still I wake up and walk like everything is all right 

I been praying 

I been hoping 

I been looking for a sign

Trynna piece myself together but I am running out of time 

These words are my pain , I cried all the time while writing a single line which you can't ever redefine

Feeling high , feeling low , it's a roller coaster and I can't escape 

I am fighting with these thoughts that constantly reshape , 

It's a real pain 

And pen is the only option that I have left 

to write down all the thoughts on paper washing my brain and drain out the only way to maintain myself.

TWO FACES - ONE HEART

By Melodie Michelle

I’m a wildfire spark 

— and a quiet slow stream — 

two sides of a soul 

stitched into one dream. 

I’m the rush of a moment 

— that won’t let me be — 

and the still, sacred silence 

that’s always been me. 

I’m the scatter of thoughts 

— racing through my mind — 

and the comfort of patterns 

keeping me aligned. 

I’m the leap without looking, 

— heart on my sleeve — 

and the girl who needs order 

just to breathe. 

I’m the loud, laughing lightning 

— dancing too fast — 

and the soft‑spoken watcher 

learning from the past. 

I’m the one who forgets 

— what comes next — 

and the one who remembers 

every feeling in text. 

I’m the rhythm of chaos, 

— the hum of routine — 

the woman who feels 

every crevice in between ... 

I’m the mask I perfected 

— so no one could see — 

and the truth that keeps whispering, 

"Just be MeL … be me." 

I’m the child who felt different 

— with no words to explain — 

why the world felt too loud, 

too sharp, 

too plain. 

I’m the grown woman now, 

— learning to say — 

these two sides of me 

were meant to stay. 

For I’m ADHD’s fire 

— and autism’s grace — 

a storm and a sunrise 

sharing one space. 

Not broken. 

Not wrong. 

Just beautifully free — 

two faces, one heart… 

and that heart is me. 

ABOUT THE POEM: "AuDHD dual diagnosis for autism and ADHD. "When my ADHD takes the lead, it feels like I'm gripping the reins of a wild chariot trying to steady horses that want to bolt in every direction at once. My mind becomes an open browser with tabs multiplying faster than I can count, and my mouth sometimes fires off whatever thought shows up first, long before I've had a chance to filter it. When my autism steps forward, everything tightens and sharpens. I become focused, intense, detail‑locked, socially unsure, and buzzing with quiet anxiety. It's the part of me that hits the brakes, while my ADHD is the part that slams the gas. Together, they make me the driver I am not perfect, not predictable, but balanced in a way that only I can be."

ABOUT MELODIE: Based in the American South, Melodie's writing offers a raw, honest, and uncensored look at the struggles of mental health and life, aiming to offer hope and remind readers they are not alone.



BETWEEN FRACTURES AND MINDS

By Rosalina Hawkins

I construct sentences that flow correctly. Proper English. Proper Grammar. Letters joined up, always.

I count the amount of words I use, 

I count the amount of breaths I take

Because that's proof I am living. 

I am in control of my Fractures. 

I turn to look in the mirror, more proof

I am within my Body. 

But when I turn back my quill has formed a shape that resembles nothing. A squiggle within a page of structure. 

How it got there, I don't know. But it wasn't me, because 

I am in control of my Fractures. 

Try to fix the mess, carving tears into the paper as I write and write until my whole page is red and my order is shattered. 

I blink hard, trying to snap out of whatever trance I am in. This is because of my Fractures.

But that's ok because

Aren't I in control of my Fractures?

I feel my heart beating fast in my chest but

I cannot focus on the fact that -i am living my heart is beating I'm fine I'm fine I'm FINE- and then the floor escapes from under me and I'm 

Falling

Falling

Falling

Into the mouth of Hell

I feel fires burning my arm, the red ink that stained my skin-page boiling away and I'm screaming and dead and I'm never going to escape

Because I lost control of my Fractures.

...

Red pools in the bathtub when my Husband comes home and He's screaming and dying and is trying to control the Fracture I created in Him

When I lost control of mine.

HAVING A MENTAL DISORDER

By Southern Longoria

Having a mental disorder ...

Or two or three ... or five.

My struggles can inspire others.

Maybe that's why I'm alive.

Though I've been through hell and back.

Alcohol, pills, anger, such a deadly combination.

Bipolar, anxiety too ...

When in doubt, know others are just like you.

Who you are is wonderful.

Scars on your skin don't matter to me.

The human heartbeat is a beautiful thing.

The love in you is what I see.

Never forget your mental health disorders,

Have never defined you from the beginning.

The person in the mirror I'm looking at now.

You deserve to be here on this Earth.

Please let me show you,

Your life has meaning and so much worth.

ABOUT SOUTHERN: Southern is from Texas and has been writing poems for years. He has been diagnosed with several mental health disorders, and has made it a life goal to make sure somebody else like him, never forgets they are not the only one. That they have reasons to be here. His poetry tends to focus on the heart, and not the brain of someone with mental health diagnosis.



THE GIRL WHO DOESN'T FIT HERE

By Emma Welch

He called her the black sheep

The words echoed over and over

Her hands began to shake

A girl who doesn’t fit here

The words stung deep in her chest

You aren’t like us, you are different

But my blood is the same as yours

My name still belongs to this house

A girl who doesn’t fit here

A family portrait on the wall

I thought I belonged in too

I guess being myself isn’t enough

So I learned to grow smaller

A girl who doesn’t fit here

How I tried to fit in more 

Always living up to expectation 

But how could I, when he was always disappointed 

I often wondered why I existed 

A girl who doesn’t fit here 

A dad, a bully—his words were razor sharp 

How he cut me down to doubt myself 

A mother who tried to keep the peace 

Words that damage a young soul 

A girl who doesn’t fit here 

The anxiety started to creep in 

Slow at first, then growing like a wave 

I needed my mum every day—please help 

My dad said she couldn’t help anymore 

A girl who doesn’t fit here 

A field where my dad can no longer hurt me 

Alone and unloved, but finally at peace 

How I marked my own path 

The black sheep who didn’t fit

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