Mental Health
Young, Assaulting Movie-Beings
My— an experience, that will never escape. They’re too young to be assaulting. It's the same scary movie we used to live... right? with me in it— seeing the young and the arrested. Illegal possession, unlawful entry, and young with— and vested. Movies— "I have a dream" of becoming a hip-hop artist. “You’ve made your bed,”— I said! Now, lie in it. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
The Ghost in My Mirror
The Ghost in My Mirror By [Huzaifa dzine] Every morning, I see her. She stands just behind the foggy sheen of the mirror, where my reflection should be. Her eyes mimic mine, but they are older somehow—haunted. Her skin carries the same freckles I have, but they’ve turned pale like faded ink. Her shoulders slump with a weight I never agreed to carry. Still, she waits there every day, wordless but watching, as I splash water onto my face and pretend not to notice.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Poets
Walking Through Unspoken Pain
There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t cry out. It doesn’t scream, doesn’t collapse in the kitchen or tear through photographs in fury. It lingers. Quiet. Heavy. The kind you carry in your spine, in the way your shoulders hunch or how you hesitate before answering “I’m fine.”
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Poets
I Was There, But Not Really
They saw me but I wasn’t there. Not fully. Not truly. Just a shape. Just a shadow. Just something close to alive. I spoke, but the voice didn’t sound like mine. It echoed like I was speaking from behind a wall. A thick wall inside my own head. They laughed. I smiled. They asked. I nodded. But I didn’t feel any of it. It was like watching my body from a distance. Like I had slipped out of my skin and left a hollow version to survive for me. I wanted to scream, “I’m not here!” But my mouth kept saying “I’m fine.” I was in the room, but also lost in a fog no one else could see. I was with people but I felt more alone than when I’m by myself. Some days, I come back. I feel my own heartbeat. My hands. My thoughts. Other days, I vanish again. Not forever. But long enough to forget what real feels like. And that that scares me more than silence.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
The Smile I Borrow
They say I smile a lot. But no one asks why it never reaches my eyes. It’s not mine. It’s borrowed. Like clothes I never chose but wear anyway. It fits the world better than silence. So I wear it. Every morning. Pull it tight like armor. Paint it bright like it means something. But inside, I’m empty. Not broken just drained. Like I gave everything to everyone and kept nothing for myself. I laugh when they laugh. Not because I feel it but because I’m expected to. Happiness, for me, is theater. The audience claps. I bow. Then hide behind the curtain no one sees. Where I’m just me. And even that feels like too much. So I smile. Again. Because pretending hurts less than explaining. Because silence is safer than truth. Because if they knew how I really felt they might leave. And I don’t want to be alone. Even though I already am.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
