Featured Poetry - May, 2025
OUT OF THE COVERS
By Caligo Cai Amber
Lying in bed crying,
time million and one,
every abuse and every pain and grief emotionally swelling,
even if thoughts don't dwell there,
but even worse when thoughts do,
music getting my heart through,
as it expresses things I can't,
and helps me climb back out of the covers,
after telling myself I need to get through the next moment,
the lyrics and the image of the semi-colon with wings,
helping me climb out of the covers,
to face another day to see what small difference I can make.
BROKEN HEART
By Renu Mathew
When someone close to your heart—someone you love, trust, and adore—deceives you and
crushes your heart into millions of pieces, the next moment your breath feels heavy, pressing
against your chest, emotions reeling in your mind.
Do you cry, throw things, confront them, or just shut down?
Days pass by as you replay images in your mind of all you have done—trusted, loved, given,
given again, and changed—only to find yourself standing alone at a crossroad, wondering:
Should I go forward, right, left, or backward?
Where do I stand with myself? Regrets, memories, feelings of hope, or despair?
Should I just end it all and make this heavy ache disappear, or should I hold on and pray for a
change of heart in the one who wronged me?
I have not been called to live a life of despair, sorrow, and regret, but a life filled with love, joy,
peace, and long-suffering.
So is this all just part of long-suffering, teaching me to hold on and trust the One who said, “I
will never leave you nor forsake you”? When my heart is shattered, my Redeemer is carrying me
through and mending my broken heart.
So that I can be a light—and shed some hope—to another aching heart.
THE AFTERMATH
By Amy A
perforated and branded
by the brandished steel which once
dragged her heavy limbs across
my silken arm
late winter nights
window slightly ajar
to let in some breeze
try to numb her
her stinging scar
i remember the gore
the next morning of
seeing her bloody mess on
my white linen sheets
i no longer see her around
not nearly as much
yet i still carry her marks of distress
on my disfigured arms
the sting still lingers
from the first time we met
how such agonising serenity
could become such a solacing escape
ABOUT THE POEM: This poem puts into words what took me years to fathom and accept as a part of me; the raw emotion of self-harm.
PHOENIX
By Heidi Hildeman
Where is the balance between dead and alive?
Where is it that my karma lies?
We caramelized my caramel eyes,
Hoping to see hope actualized,
I was hoping to see him, actual-size.
Yes, everyone still lies, sometimes,
And why I tried to make him mine,
My mind won't fully recognize,
It seemed harmless, at the time,
But time sneaks by, unrealized
Until there really IS harm in trying.
Yes, everyone still tries, sometimes,
And I think that's justified.
Someday, I'll strive to do more than survive. Someday, I'll be Phoenix rising,
My essence, essentially flying high,
My identity, reidentified.
Yes, every phoenix still dies, sometimes,
But that's besides the point.
Someday, there'll be an uprising of the pride that's hiding inside.
Someday, I'll be that phoenix.
Someday, you'll see me thriving.
ABOUT HEIDI: Heidi is a 46 year old trauma survivor living in Milwaukee, USA.
WARD DRAMA
By Dee Redgrave
Fighting, screaming, the scribbling of pencils.
Scratching my skin alongside this drama.
Drama Llama, what does this mean?
Could I handle another scream?
Headache, please, give me some time, go away until I’m stronger.
I want to help, yet want to run, running out of patience, give me longer.
Apologises for my weakness, I have my issues.
Scared to move, scrunching tissues.
Scared of the noises, but want to cackle, laugh with my friends.
But my head wants it to end!
Please don’t judge me, I know you also hurt.
My head is overwhelming me, but I am here for you too.
But my mouth is scared to blurt.
Blurt out things I don’t mean.
So I run, too much to process, but I will come back and work as a team.
Drama take me down that rabbit hole, drop my humour like a rope.
I will get us all out of here,
I have a good soul.
A SMALL FARE
By Emily Astey
I debate loudly what’s in my head.
The only proof that I’m not dead.
There’s a trail where I have bled.
I’m deep within the forest.
I hear a noise, it isn’t there.
And when I look the trees are bare.
The path requires a small fare
and I’m among the poorest.
The minutes pass though he is still.
Not many travel here by will.
I appear much to his thrill.
He greets me with a smile.
He takes me kindly with a wave.
Nodding toward an empty grave.
I’m not sure how to behave.
I’m trapped within the guile.
It pangs me to understand.
I see now of his demand.
My blood already on his hand
as he stares into my soul.
Into this tomb, I lock my gaze.
Possessing me by curse and craze.
Every tree begins to raze
as I fall into the hole.
This descension won’t seem to end.
Did I mistake him for a friend?
There’s no thought that I could mend.
The walls burn me with fire.
As I continue to decline
I hear the brook, the birds, the pine.
Maybe this is just a sign
of all that I desire.
LIFE OVER COFFEE
By Cynthia Foss
I met my younger self for coffee at a place just down the street. On the way there, I contemplated the things I would say.
We both arrived early because I'm still impatient. She arrived just a few minutes after me. I ran up and hugged her so tight; I knew she, too, didn't want to let go.
We both went and sat at a corner table. I ordered an iced coffee, and she told me I was weird. She ordered hers hot with tons of sugar and cream.
My hair was dyed a natural dark brown, hiding the grays; hers was bleached blonde.
As we casually talked, I noticed that my iced coffee was already almost gone as I saw her blowing to cool off hers. We finished at the same time.
I see the pain behind her bright brown eyes; she sees comfort in mine. She tells me she's so glad it gets better. I reassure her it gets so much better.
I reach out for her hand and tell her it's not going to be easy. I tell her she's going to be a mother, she's going to go through a divorce, and experience pain that's unexplainable.
She's going to be a mother, but she will not be allowed to be a mom. She will struggle with mental health and substance abuse issues. She will lose everything.
I notice how terrified she looks; she doesn't have to say the words. I reassure her and tell her not to be afraid; she grabs my hand tightly.
I tell her, "Head up, shoulders back." She will not just survive everything life throws at her; she will begin to heal. She will become so strong, independent, and fearless.
One day, she will become someone with whom now she would have felt safe with. She tells me she feels safe sitting at this corner table.
I tell her that I am you; I'm proof that if she keeps going and doesn't give up, she will find a sense of peace within that she never knew was possible. She tells me thank you for giving her hope, and I tell her thank you for being so strong.
She cracks a joke to lighten the mood and says we should meet again for coffee soon.
As we both leave the coffee shop, she asks if I am going to walk her home. I tell her, "Home is where you are, and I will always be with you."
I too hope we meet for coffee again soon.
ABOUT THE PIECE: Inspired by poetry a trend on Facebook about having coffee with yourself.
PUNISHMENT
By Heeya
Healing is a journey of highs and lows,
Sometimes it feels more about the lows.
A holistic improvement is scarce to come by-
It's fleeting and sudden, one step ahead and three steps back.
It's surprising how one action, one missed word,
Can trigger so much more-
And transport you immediately to a war zone,
Where your survival is the only thing to care.
A simple game of catching frisbees,
Felt like a siren going off on my senses!
I fought tooth and nail pushing and grasping;
You would think my life depended on it.
I fell and bruised my knees,
Hurt myself while hurling the frisbees.
Snatched and scratched hoping to evade getting punished-
For in my mind? I was already losing!
And maybe it did because I wasn't me anymore,
Or maybe I was, just not-
The sensible twenty two year old woman-
But a girl engulfed by her shadows.
I didn't belong in that moment,
Physically I was there my eyes on the prize,
But mentally I was fighting a war to avoid getting scarred.
Because I simply couldn't afford to get punished again!
I was the girl who had failed to come first in exams,
The one who came last in the sprint race,
The one who always cried over small disagreements,
The one who failed her parents.
I was the girl who strived and failed to be The best-
I was the girl who got hit by feathery brutal insults;
Because her grades weren't good enough .
I was the girl who embroidered her body-
With red figurines dripping with love,
Because I failed to ever be enough for anyone.
I was the girl who gave up all hope
Of ever becoming anything more-
Than a average student who was bullied like hell.
And had to give up happiness and suffered throbbing headaches.
I was the girl whose darkness was gone deep,
Her urges to revolt and her self blame won finally,
She drowned herself in an ocean of despair-
The water filled her lungs and her body laid bare.
I was the girl failed to crack through,
Even after seventeen hour days
Of toiling months through,
And her heart broke into a million pieces -
As she cried for weeks thinking of what a failure she is.
I was the woman who failed in relationships,
The one who had only failed friendships-
The one who was bitter and arrogant and rude;
The one who was the villain in all your woes.
So yes, in that moment I was not myself,
The promise of punishment churned fear buried in,
And I didn't care who I hurt in the process-
Because I was deadly scared of the consequences.
You will say it's not that deep,
But then you might never know what childhood trauma is!
To be beaten black and blue because you had an opinion-
To be thrashed with steel scales
Because your grades didn't meet your parents' expectations.
To be locked in a dark room because you refused to eat;
To be thrown on the streets because you cut your story book,
To be pulled by your hair because the equations didn't match,
To be blamed for the stitches that graced your back.
And I wish I could tell, I'm sorry that's not me,
But in all honesty you know as well as I do-
I would just be lying if I said this.
And I'm not happy because I won,
Nope, I was just relieved I didn't have to lose.
Because I am really that damaged goods,
The one so broken, I forget I can wound too.
ABOUT HEEYA: Heeya is a 22 year old medical student from India. She writes a lot of poetry which usually tends to delve into deeper themes.
CUP
Tim Boardman
‘Could you get me a cup
Jake’?
‘From the kitchen ‘
We all hold our breath
eventually we chat about
The weather
Cloudy and
Cold
Still waiting
And now it’s raining
as the clock strikes 10
when it’s actually 11
we carry on talking
the electric heater
Is on
and glows
Eventually
dad appears
With a toothbrush
‘Lovely,
Thank you’
Said the lady in a uniform
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
Alone, I wrestle with my thoughts
Each whisper, a silent scream
Wandering through memories, overthrown
By shadows of forgotten dreams
A ghost, in my mind
Haunts me, of a better time.
Til there I am, under the lamppost,
The day I find each word an invisible landmine.
MR. THOMAS HAD IT RIGHT
By Riley M. Frank
I cannot suffer another delusion,
That all the strife and confusion,
Is merely more par for the course.
The insanity near here and afar
Is enough to set sane minds ajar;
We should cut it off at the source.
But saner minds refuse the task,
Hiding behind their public mask,
Afraid of political consequences
Of holding so many to account
For their many, varied offenses.
We of more linguistic proficiency,
With the utmost sound of urgency,
Must use the power of our agency.
For our freedoms are on the verge
Of succumbing to a terrible purge.
Dylan Thomas had it oh so right,
That we must rage, rage against
The dying of the light if we are to
Stop this tyrannical plight.
PAINKILLERS
By Tamizh Ponni VP
A spoonful of honey and a glass of water
Follows the single gulp of Cyclopam
To put a gag on the gag
“Another month off the life chart”
Strips of bitterness since two thousand-six
Aunt Flo doesn’t give a damn
Just as my OB/GYNs
“You have to live with it”
“Manage with medications”
You aren’t special
This is every woman’s problem
Kindly suffer in silence. Thank you.
Hatred gives purpose
We start all over again, the new gyno & I
First base with speculum and
TVS for the third
“Having a child might probably help”
Emphasis on “probably” here.
“Double Income No Kids?
You deserve this!”,
Society chimes in now and then
My boss is too empowered
“Only the meek ones
seek paid period leaves”, she blasts.
Hormonal pills just pretend
to smooth my frayed nerves
And to boost the will to carry on
“We need more research into this!”,
the Keyboard Warriors fume.
While the laws of the world
are being rewritten
to control a woman’s body,
Inside the bathroom stalls,
tired of combat in
the eternal war that is womanhood,
My helpless self
sobs in silence wondering
Isn't the present scary?
More than the past or future?
ABOUT TAMIZH: Tamizh is an ambivert who loves to express her skills through literature, visual arts and music. She has worked as an IB educator for 7 years and is currently pursuing her M.Tech, PhD integrated course in Data Science. Tamizh sees learning as a never-ending process and technology integration, it gives her an interesting dimension to knowledge acquisition and skill-building. Her stories were featured in two anthology books, "Mia" and "Varna". Tamizh's articles, poems and paintings have also been published in many digital journals and educational blogs. Tamizh spends most of her free time painting, reading, writing articles, stories and poems, playing piano and watching documentaries/movies.
FB: @tamizhponni.vp/
X: @Madhu7777
Instagram: @cassandraclicks/
SILHOUETTE
By Isabelle P. Byrne
Simplify me!
Simplify me!
Simplify me!
And so he did,
He drew we as a silhouette
And in the darkness I hid,
True black that absorbed any chance of light,
Because it can’t be lit in the dark of night
It cant be faked or fawned,
With the lights turned on it finally dawned,
That I was just a silhouette without a shadow,
I was nothing deep I was excessive jo ly shallow,
Read me for what I am not what I’m not,
As when the lights turn on And my the shadows fade I’ll be forgot.
ABOUT ISABELLE: Isabelle is a published poet whose work delves into themes of identity, mental health, sociological thought, and nihilism. She is known for her innovative poetry films, which have been selected for international film festivals, and have earned her multiple awards, including Best Director and Best Poetry Film. Her work, both on stage and screen, offers a powerful exploration of the human condition through a unique fusion of visual and written storytelling.
ODE TO LAMICTAL
By Penelope Bravo
The monotonous communion
Of taking your powdery flesh religiously,
Brings me closer to salvation than any man-made church.
I owe my life to you.
When I blame my synaptic disconnect
On your molecular anatomy,
I forget to thank you,
For the silence;
For the frozen-over --once tumultuous-- sea of rage
And self-sabotage which
lays dormant, cause of you.
My dependence, like an affair, illicit,
Feels like cheating
On whatever fleck of me is left.
Lamictal,
I don’t explain you; I don’t defend you.
I tell my mother I’m not seeing you anymore;
She says, “good for you.”
She won’t accept that my being with you is a testament
That I’m getting better,
That I’m getting older,
That I got the chance to grow older;
That I’m one of the lucky ones
Because I have you.
And I solemnly swear,
I’ll stifle and beat back the chorus
Of strange and familiar voices
That simultaneously screech judgment.
They had it hard too
And they didn’t need you,
They just got over it,
Got happy--
Repressed it--
Held it down--
Every,
Single,
Day,
Pushed it down
Pushed and pushed and had daughters
All without you.
You’re a miracle on earth,
A promise of mercy from an absent God.
One day, I hope
you feel less like a curse on my tongue.
Lamictal, I’m sorry,
That after everything you’ve done
I’m still ashamed of you.
ABOUT THE PIECE: "Being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, I struggled with accepting the fact that I would have to take medication for the rest of my life. I fought it. I went off my medication many times since my initial diagnosis. Now that I’m a little older I realize most of my issues with taking medication come from the negative social stigma. I am privileged to have access to medication and to have found a combination that works for me. Ode to Lamictal is about coming to that realization and romanticizing taking my meds."
ABOUT PENELOPE: Penelope is a Cuban American writer currently studying English literature at the University of Texas at El Paso. When she’s not hiking in the Franklin Mountains, she can be found thrifting and sketching around the borderlands.
RAFT
By V. Cambray
There once was a raft, alone on the ocean
That floated softly, balanced against a wave
Everything that echoed through water caused commotion
Everything that was said brought it closer to the grave
Everything and nothing affected that raft.
There once was a raft, surrounded by ocean
That suddenly rocked, pushed by a wave
Everything that smiled caused blind devotion
Everything that bruised it made it a slave
Nothing affected the raft.
There once was a raft, drowned in ocean
That shattered to pieces, broke by a wave
Everything that it heard made its soul remotion
Everything that was seen caused it to behave
Everything affected my raft.
ABOUT THE POEM: "Sometimes I have days where everything feels dark and hopeless. In those times, poetry becomes my outlet to express things I can’t say out loud. This poem was written during a period where I was struggling silently with upsetting thoughts that I tried to keep under control so no one would notice."
ABOUT V: V is a young inspiring writer who uses poetry as an outlet to explore complex ideas, especially about mental health. She finds the more abstract ways of exploring mental health to be more thought-provoking for her.
PSYCHOSIS
By Amy Lee
Tae live in a land
Away with the faeries
You hae tae be brave
But dinny worry, I'm not scary
Tae no ken whit is real
And whit is a dream
Whit's the pittar-patter of raindrops
Or footsteps doon the stream
Tae hear the thud of murder
Late into the night
Or the innocent closing of a door
In the communal flight.
Tae look over your shoulder
Tae know your being tracked
By the man in the hi vis jacket ...
Your phone he has not hacked!
Tae run home like your being chased
To hide under the bed
From an old lady heading to the bingo...
All she's carrying is bread!
To tell folk what your thinking
And be met with dismay
"I believe its real for you"
That's what they all say
There's no telling who's reality is real
It's all our own perception
But mine seems to be a bit wack
Nobody believes my skills of detection.
Tae no know what is real and what's not
Can be a beautiful thing
The streets can dance with magic
And I know I'm not the only yin
That sees what's really happening
The truth of the world around
But for most it's too much to comprehend
So it's my feet that aren't on the ground.
ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is based on my own personal experiences of this mental health condition."
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