Mental Health
Void Whispers
Silent rooms where shadows weave their tales, I hear the echoes of a voice unspoken, A whisper flits like dust through sunlit veils, Yet solitude’s embrace remains unbroken. I sit alone, with thoughts both vast and stark, The walls conspire with secrets never shared; An unseen breath ignites the stillness dark— This phantom conversation feels so dared. “Do you not see me?” sighs the air I breathe, A jest upon the lips of time's cruel jesters; Yet here I am—a captive of belief, In company of ghosts who are my testers. For every word that dances in my ear, The silence wraps me tighter in its shroud; The irony: I seek what’s far from near— To find connection in an empty crowd. Oh sweet delusion! How you twist and play! In whispers heard but never to be found; What irony unfolds when night turns day— To long for voices lost in hollow sound.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Poets
The World May Never Know
The advances you made How they've changed the world Yet, the world may never know I Do The insatiable appetite you had for learning and How you made me feel.. worthy of having a good friend Our closest friends will never know I Do The burden of living with survivors of atrocity The trauma and the acute psychosis How they made your life a living hell and the Responsibility you felt to care for them They didn't know the burden you bore I Do Not many knew the solitude you required To question the answers To make those advances and contributions That make life better for so many I Do Did you need me Were you afraid of being seen like that You cared for them but wouldn't hear of it Letting others care for you Do I know how indignant it can feel When you were once so capable, brilliant In your quiet competence I Do Do I miss you Dearly.. I Do.
By Jaime Winterabout a month ago in Poets
Come Wednesday. Top Story - October 2026. Content Warning.
Come Wednesday, might this window view be brighter Nor'easter turbulence Dumps another round of rain Nature's unsettled womb; it's personal Forehead to pane Whipping wind pulls my chest tighter Tears Midstream drought Raw, irritated, swollen, moisture-stripped eyes Awkward silence Oriel reflection; side view Less than a bump Side-eyed empty cradle Waiting for the arrival of grace Recalling when hope didn't deliver Fear: am I unable Coastal collision colors corneas clay Come Wednesday, might this window view be clearer Weather satellite; comma-shaped storm Counterclockwise If I could go back Would I heed the forecast Connect one thing to the next Outline probabilities Foretell context Empty clothesline flaps in the wind Lawn chair flips across the yard Off-season treason Body overthrows heart Head to pane Matrix mindful— pear-shaped lies Come Wednesday, might this window view be forgiven Sun's reclamation Will Gaia apologize to the garden Or ask her to act as if nothing ever happened Eroded Goldenrod Corroded potted Chrysanthemums Bruising outlook Landscape stamp on my heart Open screen; hand out Fertility prayers Mother-wuthered seeds palm mitted Heart's black and blue Nature's embryotic reassignment Personal Anemochory; biological memory Oh, when will yellow and purple finally make green Come Wednesday, might this window view look brighter Terra, don't clap back to my thunder I've seen it earlier Same date, different year Kindly Precipitation prelude positive prognosis May open heavens bless me So I am not repulsed by the gods Because I've been here before Riding Climate carousel Exit retrospect Function missing extra pulse Heartbeat hymns Short window; today is Sunday Appointment. Anniversary Birth-death-one breath Window view blues Erratic forecast Three days and waiting What will happen come Wednesday
By Marilyn Gloverabout a month ago in Poets
Green Onions. Top Story - October 2026.
The last one. Number 50! The reason I chose 50 is part of my ongoing art project, #1in50 . In the UK, that is the number of people living with bipolar disorder. It is a sterile, clinical statistic fitting neatly onto medical charts and mental health factsheets.
By Alyson Smith about a month ago in Poets
The Elephant in the Room
Note from writer: This poem is written in the shape of an elephant to illustrate the words that go unsaid when asked, 'How are you?'. The heaviness and weight behind the words, 'I'm fine' is something I tried to capture in this piece.
By Sarah O'Gradyabout a month ago in Poets
