Haytham Trueheart
Bio
Melanesian Anglo-Celtic Aussie POET (Masig + Kiwai) On Vocal Media I write about mental health, trauma, poverty, suicide, struggle street, authenticity and healing.
Stories (13/0)
Universal Order
Stay in my arms, keep me warm, take me away to an island of cottage houses that live in heaven. If I could reside in a rose, sleep on a candle, eat grapes from the moon and have a bubble bath as my bed then joy would wake my soul every morning from the mountain. Gazing into the ethera from flesh to alternate realities; my soulmate is seen picking flowers, singing with the greenery, flipping pages lost in a book, barefoot soaking in a riverbed. While my wild hearted kids spur in a child’s world dispersed in the wilderness of Mother Earth’s fortress. An immeasurable treasure filled of pain and pleasure such is the adventure of life. An experience that unfolds you to your core, shedding layers to your purpose and the one course to take is… suffering. A blessing or curse? Advantage or disadvantage? Suppose you could say it differs between individuals. For he who has been wounded and healed learns to stitch others. And it’s when death ground swallows you that you’re made to dig into the trenches of your neglected parts. It is then when meaning is uncovered and you fall into the universe but realise it was just the doorstep of your soul. Preordained by the structurelessness of time’s myth every piece will fill when it’s destined in the open passage universal order. The heart’s deepest desires will blossom when the season is right.
By Haytham Trueheart11 days ago in Poets
Feeling Like A Dead Leaf
Self-conscious breaths unfold through the forest within my chest, an avalanche tips off and drops. Plop into the pond of my fears it rips a ghost faceless in my inner rowdiness. The room is overcrowded with action and noise it's hard to grasp true connection. I feel like a torn bed sheet stripped from my comfort scattered from my alone solitude. Feeling skinless and yuck of unaddressed weight. Overpiled junk with crushing inner dialogue bashing myself in a closet. At times I feel drunk swaying above heavy floors kicking dead leaves at my feet. And then I wonder, what does it feel like to be a dead leaf? Nothing and everything!
By Haytham Trueheart19 days ago in Poets
Stainless Steel
Stainless steel cavalier, deepens the stresses and scratches tingling the surface stretching tighter. Pierced, sinking an avalanche of sharpness liquid seeps from the bottom of my heart. I graze my arm of art, poetry of pain, stains scars across my soft smile, though the permanence of suicide I promise to take no part.
By Haytham Trueheart21 days ago in Poets
Offically Alone
Officially alone; anxiety traps me inside myself. I'm a writer who writes stories and yet I’m without a story. I'm resistant to opening the loudness of my speechlessness, these naked pages reject me as my head is stuck in a vortex of unhealed behaviours. My soul appears to be held captive, suffering in the pit of my ego, born and made to suffer. Perhaps the afterlife thought to return and repeat a life again through the human instrument. I don't believe in god nor do I kneel for a cross, so do not sing your hymns when I'm gone.
By Haytham Trueheart22 days ago in Poets
If I Could Change My Age
Dear Universe, Innocent tears pierce my losing smile. Only if I could change my age to suit society’s fears or shame, I would sprint twice as fast than to change my name. I’m muddled in this sudden blow of frustration drowning in this why? Why did life decide to punish my birth with a date a few years late? I thought love was ageless, I thought the soul was the face, I thought logical and emotional transparency was the focus? Not a number society strapped on me with temporary labels. If I am to kiss the dirt in return of my death, why would society stare at me when I’m happy most? If those who love me embodied that feeling in its entirety, acceptance would fly again. Only if I could change my number to meet her wishes, only if I could race the years ahead to fulfil her worries, maybe I could meet her standards and honour her as the heaven upon my throne. I would challenge God to swear on my breath that for this numbering brand I wear, I’ve matured in my skin. But it matters not while we sleep in this invisible cage called age. It is a pain I can’t dispel despite I’ve prayed. My love suffers. And then I’ve learned, in my traditional village age is not a number it is content of character and how one chooses to lead the past into the future. This concept of age and identity play evaporates at the shores of my island. And as my elder told me “My boy, knowledge blo you wagbout pass, you wagbout behind.” That my knowledge walks first, and I walk behind. That wisdom does not shed upon the branded age, but the intensity of day to day circumstances. That knowledge is built upon resilience, humility, and determination, carrying the amplification of my merits which judges my age beyond the number my heart had been given. Oh universe, if I could change my age for her, I would sell my soul to the ends of time and free the genie from the bottle. As my mentor says “If it works, it works. No explanation required.”
By Haytham Trueheart22 days ago in Poets
What Is My Race?
A Caucasian and Melanesian blend is my face. My tongue torn through the crossing of bloodlines, what is my race? If I cut, red will spill, maybe the hate or shame of two worlds too hurt to choose a place. If I dream to drain the mixed questions awake on my fairness, I’ll die of disappointment.
By Haytham Trueheart22 days ago in Poets
How Do We Change?
Every criminal, addict, alcoholic, murderer, rapist, pedophile, racist, terrorist, politician, poor, rich and famous were once an irresistible innocent infant. Moulded into perfection, demanding love, nurturing, guidance and protection. The worst of us aren’t born cold-hearted and corrupted, we’re abused, mistreated, exploited and created. Look beyond the eyes when the heart stands, and have compassion, empathy and forgiveness for the brokenness that divides and unites us. We are responsible for the destruction of our own making. How do we change? How do we forgive? When the madness that perpetually haunts us is perpetrated by us.
By Haytham Trueheart22 days ago in Poets
Because My Father Said No
The miles ahead I’ve gone, quite far to turn around. I take no moment to be one of regret. Forward I face to the mountains of miles to trek from the baby of my years. 19 years alone, surrounded by ghosts, empty shells, each neglected in their homes returning their misery unto me, my family are distinguished hope.
By Haytham Trueheart24 days ago in Poets
