BROKE ME

By Ogeh Cynthia Onuzulike

It carved grief into my bones. 

I wore sorrow like a second skin, 

each breath a prayer 

for the pain to pass, 

each tear became a baptism 

into the truth I didn’t want to know.

From the wreckage, 

I rose.

Not all at once. 

Not with ease. 

But with trembling hands and doubtful mind,

With pain that turns to purpose and back to despair,

I gathered the shards 

of who I used to be.

I stitched my soul 

with threads of grace, 

Prayed the Hail Mary to soothe wounds, that runs deep... 

I whispered to myself 

“Ogechukwu you are worthy. 

Nne, you are not broken. 

Nwa, you are not half of anything. 

You are whole. 

You are enough. 

You are the full package".

I met myself again,

not the version shaped by pain, betrayal, and heartbreak.

But the one who dances barefoot in her own becoming, 

the one who writes her name in ash and in gold seams of kintsugi and calls it sacred.

Now, I bloom 

not in spite of the fire, 

but because of it. 

My roots run deeper. 

My voice rings clearer. 

My love is mine to keep and to give.

Let the world know: 

I was broken, 

but I am not bitter. 

I was betrayed, 

but I am not bound. 

I grieved, 

but I grew.

And from the ashes, 

I am building a life 

that no one can burn.

I am Ogeh Cynthia Onuzulike,

And, I have become,

The Flame

MY ADHD MAKES ME A ...

By Dorian Blink

My adhd makes

my

My ADHD makes it hard to focus.

I am hard to focus on

They look at me and they see

my ADHD makes me

a boy who talks out of turn.

I am a lot of things,

but I’m only that.

A lot.

A lot of energy

for them

A lot of people in one head

A lot of effort,

frustration

A lot of a lot of

My ADHD makes me a

superpower

I’d choose invisibility

if I could

cause I like not being

My ADHD makes me

I see things weird

I think

they’re weird

but I guess they’ve seen things

I haven’t

I am someone else

the mailman, maybe

but not the kid down the street

the ice cream truck guy, sure

but not 

My ADHD makes me

hard to follow

Things hard to focus on:

poems

school

thoughts

the right thing

the wrong thing:

bug on the window

life in Japan

focusing

not being enough

what they say about me

I am

impossible

extra

just stop

too much

going to deliver pizzas

weird,

I was

I was

myself

until you called me

someone else

I live in the box I was put in

It’s dark and lonely.

Here,

my ADHD makes me.



NEAR A SPRING

By Tim Boardman

I’ve lost my hair.

I’ve lost my lust.

All my shining dreams

have turned to dust.

My friends are going

or becoming lost.

They’re waiting for me

in the hot sands

near a spring,

where they crossed 

I said to Simon,

How lonely does it get?

I still haven’t heard —

yet

but I hear him laughing,

questioning

in the temple of love

high above.

I walk with a stick —

not for support,

but for the look of it,

second hand bought 

I was made like this.

I had no choice.

The need to express.

The need to create.

To prove I exist.

I sit in the house 

where the light is strong.

Outside,

the signs of spring

are waiting.

My friends are going

or becoming lost.

They’re waiting for me

in the hot sands

near a spring,

where they crossed 

The river isn’t flowing as fast.

The earth begins to dry.

I stare outside,

waiting

for you to arrive 

My friends are going

or becoming lost.

They’re waiting for me

in the hot sands

near a spring,

where they crossed

I'M FALLING

By Teryl Garcia

Now the pills 

Have met the whiskey

And the room is melting

Beneath my feet

Jesus, this is finally it,

I’m coming

So get ready for me

For years now we’ve been

Out of touch

A mutual losing of faith

So you can’t reach out your hand

To catch this falling child

Pull her out of

This self made mess

Descending alone

With only myself to blame

Let’s gather around 

Eyes shut

Hands tied

What could you have done

The colors bleed

But I swear it’s okay

I’ll never need help

Or at least I’ll never ask

I'm just fine

Don’t bother with promises

ABOUT TERYL: Teryl is a theatre practitioner and educator from Texas who processes her emotions on the page. She has performed her work at various spoken word events and has had several short plays featured at theatre festivals. She holds an MFA in Theatre from the University of Hawaii at Manoa. She absolutely loves puppetry, and has won a Hawaii State Theatre Council Award for puppet design. Her dog, Bisbee, is her inspiration both in art and life.

SNOW CAP

By Lydia Kirschenbaum

Even with all my anxieties

the world does not erupt

but keeps on churning, slow

and heavy, every morning

arriving, for no one and for

everyone. Late January,

I wake up to thick snow; I

who try so typically to

predict everything, who

forgets to look without only

seeing, until it demands

itself, simply, upon all

that we claim to be of our

making. Cars and streets

and buildings, overstimulation

of places to be- it’s true how

in our busyness we go blind.

But today the snow sits

over all of it, as if reclaiming

a moment, a city, a certain will

to be. I would like to burrow

myself in the white cold

because I know the world

would not come looking,

because really that would be

a relief. But I am more human

than I asked to be, full with

grief and craving and singing.

I have not yet learned rest

like the night at sleep. And still

there is snow. It is already

almost February.

THE ORIGINS OF ANXIETY

By John Gallas

Plunk - 

so down-dips, under the weedy water,

a Tufty Scoter ...

I’m on the red log bench at Quarry Pits.

Just watching stuff. Quiet as a cloud ... 

And now I’m left alone with only 

the Tufty Scoter’s perfect ripple-rings

widening on the silver pool ... bobbing 

the crystal-wort in whispery waves.

Nothing ... still ... still ... 

All my unconsidered hours 

fall into haphazard while, 

lightsome and mirror-topped, 

Quarry Pits shuts down the quacker somewhere 

beyond the calculations of my heart.

I hum a song, but it all goes wrong.

Then I rip open my bag of crackers

and gobble them in a mess. 

The wort weeds bob and wave. 

I’m wondering what in the world

does do

that duck. 

But crackers, songs,

invention or surmise ...

I just can’t get it right. I’m jittering 

on the bank bench in something like a funk.

Their footsteps faded at my door.

Their Ogre nightlights burned till dawn.

Their kisses not worth waiting for.

Their buses late. Their curtains drawn. 

Splot -

the waters burst with a little, glassy breach

and the Tufty Scoter slaps up right in front of me 

and says wack. 

The sun sinks in clouds: the pool is a mirror no more.

Good. I put my cracker-paper in the bin. 

The duck turns and paddle-fades

upon its unreflecting skin.

IN MOURNING

Dr. Archan Mehta

I want you to know, gentle readers,

That I lost my old man today: Dad,

What can I say? This is a challenging

Time for me, you see, so I request you

To support and cooperate with me: I

Mean this in a friendly way, but I won’t

Be taking any calls; nor will I entertain

Personal visits from well-meaning Kith

And Kin: I need space and privacy to

Let this tragedy sink in. I know this will

Be a process, long and hard, and I will

Have to lay my cards on the table: being

Open, honest and transparent are a must,

As I struggle to pick myself up from the

Ashes and dust of reality. Once I recover,

And find peace of mind, rest assured, I will

Host a party and we will talk about happier times.

ODE TO DAD

By Bobby Z 

I walk to work,

and carry my lunch.

have no money,

can't take the bus.

The walls are cold

and the bowl won't flush.

the ice man came and left,

so the ice box went bust.

Dad came home,

and started his usual crap,

started yelling at mom,

fell asleep on the floor from to much sneaky Pete.

The kerosine man,

came and left,

he said you have no money,

so you have no heat.

The cockroaches are dancing,

they rule the walls at night,

the plaster starts cracking,

time to pull the covers over your head real tight.

The door comes crashing down,

and he says he's finally home,

I guess he doesn't know,

that we want to be left alone.

The time comes and goes,

and he's finally gone and can no longer berate,

he's buried somewhere in Potters Field,

and thank God he'll never get to see the Pearly Gates.

THE MOVEMENT TOWARDS ...

Anonymous 

He glides past my dress as we work it all through

Just the right to and fro for the focus to be

As it must, as it must, and I'm out there again

The door shuts behind and my wonderment grows

Does everything he knows then enter on in?

Does it grow, move, and breathe and land once again?

Do his eyes light up as they all rush on in --

The blues, golds, and ohs! come rushing on in?

The movement towards, the movement towards

Ah, ah

The Movement Towards

THERAPY



WHAT IF IT WAS YOU SUFFERING?

By Tammy Khan

Having a mental illness isn't like having a cough or cold

Once the word is mentioned or written on your notes

You feel you're in a different world and not like everyone else

No one seems to want to know you or even give you help

It feels like everyone's avoiding you because they think they will catch it themselves

It is not a nice thing to suffer from and it is very hard to recover from

People who are suffering this should not be put aside or missed

When they're very poorly, they don't know what's going on

So they may harm themselves, or even someone else

But they really don't know they are doing this

And should be given lots of love and lots and lots of care and trust

Sometimes all people need when they're ill is love and care

Knowing that there is someone kind out there

It's nice to have someone to talk to at anytime in need

And yes they may repeat themselves but talking to someone - 

HELPS THEIR NEEDS!

Have a heart of gold not of stone made out of mold

If you want to help us please don't rub us off

We're sorry but we don't just have a cough, cough, cough

Yes, we're sorry, but we don't just have a cough

But, yes, we will get better!

We will get better

We are feeling better now

It's time to go Home!

ABOUT TAMMY: "I am fifty-one years-old and currently reside at a care home. I started suffering from poor mental health when I was about 19-20 years old. It's been such a struggle going through this because - as you may know - mental health is still in its early stages of acceptance, by both the medical world and society at large, so, in the past when I have suffered from things like depression and stress, I didn't get adequate care as these were not recognised as mental health conditions at the time. I suffer a lot of other health conditions too but I am learning to live with them all. Writing poems and songs like this are one of my ways of coping and communicating my feelings with other people. I also do some art work because this relaxes me as well, and one of my hobbies is collecting watches and, at my last count, I had over 400 beautiful wristwatches!" 

NB: "I have had help typing this up by a carer as I am unable to do so myself because of my learning disabilities."

WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE

By Brad Copp

Dreams come to us all

Things we would like to do

Some are big, some are small

We only hope they come true

Afraid of the unknown

We let years pass by

Stuck in the comfort zone 

Where dreams go to die

Scared to try something new 

Frightened by the other side 

Never knowing if it is true

We may enjoy the ride

Many dreams will turn to stone

All we had to do was try

Stuck in the comfort zone

Where dreams go to die

Follow our dream

Follow our heart

It sounds extreme

Let the adventure start

Believe that we can

Give it a chance 

God has a plan

For our life to enhance

I WISH I HAD NO ARMS

By Mark Burgon

You think "That's just wrong"

"It's selfish"

"Some people are born that way"

"Some people have to have them removed

Through disease or war or accident"

So I should be grateful.

I've still got arms?

Arms that can feel

And touch

And do 'normal' stuff.

And not look 'abnormal'

So that people say

"That poor man

That must be so hard

Living with no arms

How do they get through life?

Without people judging them

Without the constant sympathetic gestures

How do they survive?

But they do have a sign

So clear as neon.

A sign that says

Part of me is broken

It's not my fault

It's NOT my fault

I never wanted this broken part of me

So don't be sorry for me

It won't change me

You can't fix me.

Just 'see' me.

Really SEE me.

Even when I do have arms.

Even without the neon sign.

FROM NEOLITHIC SPIRALS TO A HOPE FOR ETERNITY

By Cristian Horgos

Neolithic spirals carved on megaliths all over the Earth

They symbolized immortality of each human birth:

Tarxien in Malta or Newgrange in Ireland

Castelluccio in Sicily or La Zarza in a Canary Island

Ancient man profoundly believed in different kinds of afterlife

That nobody could stop with a coup of knife

For millenia and millenia

He meditated for it by the fireplaces before chimenea

He longed for it intensely and prayed for it

The demand for Heaven was imprinted in the brain's knit

Thus the dough was baked for something never seen

Something as extraordinary as the first living cell and gene

The brain, with its unlimited potential that is truly viral,

Has created an aura or an energetic spiral

And all the spirals started to interweave into a super-vortex

Like the Spirit's Tree that unifies each Avatar's soul and cortex

Maybe it sounds just like as a myth about gorgone

But just as the brain created, out of need, each new organ

Think about the mouth, nose, ear, eye ...

There is no need anymore to say to your old parents 'good bye'

This is with respect to the Darwin's Evolution Theory

Is it for you enough, really?

The energy spiral arose from its spiritual desideratum

So there is no real ultimatum

This spiral survives the moment the hearts stop

Requiring a way of thinking's swap

And shines in Carl Jung's idea of synchronicity

Bringing more hope and felicity

Instead of meaningless life and anxiety.

PAR-ANNOYED

Anthony Ward

I hear canned laughter from my televised mind,

Where I imagine they’re watching me,

Their grotesque countenances like demons

Bleating the bleeding obvious

As I entertain them.

That’s right!

I’m an entertainer.

Amusing people with my act.

Seriously funny,

I’m their sense of humour;

Nothing more than a joke. 

Because I’m different

They mock me.

Because I’m interested in things they don’t find interesting,

They laugh.

Because I wear clothes they wouldn’t wear,

They find that amusing

All delighted by my appearance. 

Except this isn’t a comedy

It’s is a tragedy-

A real drama.

Their humour spreads like a tumour through my mind,

Destroying my sensibility.

Creating such discomfort,

That my confidence deteriorates,

And my esteem shrivels. 

Rather than take the popular route,

I go out of my way to get round them,

Hoping to get back to myself.

While my personality wanes-

My strength ebbing away ...

My heart dripping like water in a basin

Echoing the empty space

That was once a cathedral

Brimming with vaulted thoughts;

Now nothing but a ruin,

The travesty of the man I’m yet to become.

A complete wreck,

With them as the windscreen.

Something I have to go through

Before I get to where I’m heading.

THE HOLE IN MY LIFE

By Judge Santiago Burdon

There's a hole in my life 

where all the happiness leaks out

Doctors tried to fix it with medication

Which produced poor results

So I made a hole in my arm 

to replace what I had lost

Used all of everything I found.

Nothing could fill the void.

Next ambition, compassion gratitude and pride 

also spilled out and exited my life.

A toxic depression filled the emptiness inside

What remains is a hole I made in my arm 

And an addiction I struggle to satisfy

created from a madness 

that I prescribed.

Share your poetry for mental health ...