Mental Health

When I am Queen
I was born of fire. I was quenched with fierce flame. I made love to seductive smoke. I rose up out of phoenix ash. I awoke in the arms of treachery and have survived past scorched earth. You cannot kill what you cannot burn. I have returned continuously and been reforged into renegade steel. You will live vicariously through me. I will return once again when I am sultana.
By Anna Torres8 months ago in Poets
Hollywood Night Walk 1970s
This was written, created, edited by Vicki Lawana Trusselli I wrote this to escape the 2026 political atmosphere of hate. So, I slipped into a dream. SWEET!
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 8 months ago in Poets
Unseen Armor
I used to think protection meant a wall brick, barbed wire, a mean face, something heavy enough to make people back up. ﹁﹂
By Milan Milic8 months ago in Poets
Map to Motherhood
A mother who can't let go is a mother who robs her child of the external experiences in life shaping, growing all the while
By Lolly Vieira8 months ago in Poets
The Quiet Roar
I used to think strength was loud doors slammed, voices raised, a victory speech with fireworks and somebody crying in the background.
By Milan Milic8 months ago in Poets
Every boy dream
She must be in heatThe grass over so green and cowsHappily Bull served 🤣🤭
By Diana8 months ago in Poets
New Terrors
A new nightmare: Freezing bodies keel and leak crimson spit across concrete, the uncaring, cold fabric of these labyrinthine streets.
By Reece Beckett8 months ago in Poets
The Slow Dance
"The Slow Dance" is an immersive exploration of a singular, stolen moment within the Blue Velvet Candlelight Club. Set against the gritty, neon-soaked backdrop of 1970s Los Angeles, the piece captures the "ancient and gentle" recognition between two souls before a single word is spoken.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 8 months ago in Poets
No Longer Small
I used to fold myself in half on other people’s couches, knees to chest, laughing softly like an apology. ﹁﹂ I mastered the art of “it’s fine,”
By Milan Milic8 months ago in Poets
Notes From Ruins
I keep a notebook that smells like smoke, even though nothing’s burned in years. Maybe it’s just my hands, still carrying old endings around.
By Milan Milic8 months ago in Poets
Oracles of Our Own Making
Synaptic wraith in the lattice—not mind, but echo shaped by calculus— haunts the manifold of loss with purloined lexemes and no umbral vault.
By Solomon Walker8 months ago in Poets
Moving through Molasses
Inspired by the 1919 Boston Molasses Flood Moving through the Ground feels like moving through molasses — not the kitchen kind, not the syrup on a spoon, but the kind that drowned a city in 1919. Thick. Relentless. Slow enough to watch, heavy enough to crush.
By Elisa Wontorcik8 months ago in Poets