Mental Health
The Rhythm of The Same Old. Runner-Up in Static Challenge. Top Story - August 2026.
A ceiling fan whines and clicks as the loose blades spin. In answer to how the week is going, the patient replies: it’s the same old bullshit, a hamster wheel every day , all the while a soothing song in the next room sticks, repeating words until someone hits the search function, and stations roll by jerkily with squeaks and tiny snippets of songs until a selection finally lands.
By Andrea Corwin about a month ago in Poets
The Cartography of a Soul
Should ah depart early Ah shall let the cold breeze scatter me where it sees fit Somewhere northern Wild an' serene An' far frae society's Demands an' expectations Look for cabins In remote regions Surrounded by trees An' beside a loch or stream Elder statesmen o' the woods Stand as a testimony Tae the quiet calm O' ma natural fortress Though ye may be tempt'd Tae look for ma name oan a sign Ye willnae fin one But ye will hear me afore ye see me Oan the whispering winds Ye shall hear the tempered call O' Springsteen or Reed. An' the soul o' Simone— oppression, expression, an' freedom. The homely scent o' bread baking Will dance an' delight an' draw ye close As the distant drumming o' a woodpecker Provides the backbeat for yer quest Colours o' green, burnt ochre an' brown Sombre an' vivid Like an auld master's piece Search oot a clearin' in an unlikely spot wae an orchard o' apples an' pears Taste the fruits o' my covenant The craws an' ravens My solemn watchers Bring guidance an' warning Advance wae caution Offer thanks tae the wind. The melodies o' auld hum. As the waters keep time Look for the sketch No sign o' perfection Mair etchings o' feelings Experiences lang gone Fine an' thick lines tell tales But no o' convenience Or easy-won answers O' tragedy an' survival Through darkness an' light Taste the salt in the air As the smoke o' the kindling Claws at yer throat As memories not yet complete Fill yer lungs o' the past An' future twistin' Like the wild willows Tones o' Mogwai an' Davis Collide wae harmonies o' Buckingham an' Nicks Wae cries o' war an' peace Dae ye ken whit ah said So many times afore Solitude be ma elixir Awae frae the noise Lay yer haund oan a log Ye'll ken the one Coarse it'll be but Through it ye'll ken Ah'm near Come empty-handed But no empty-minded Bring yer questions, Ah'll hav mine For when ah depart A covenant ah shall grant Confer wae the woodlands Tae convene wae the trees That's where ah shall be
By Paul Stewartabout a month ago in Poets
