Mental Health
A Week of Poetry, Pressure, and Pennies
I never realized how fast bills could pile up — until I bought a car. We barely drive it. Both my partner and I work from home, and the longest it’s moved recently is from one side of the street to the other for street cleaning. And yet, the expenses? Endless. It’s like the car just sits there radiating financial stress. Insurance, maintenance, registration, mystery fees that sound made up — they all add up, and quickly. Lately, it feels like everything is piling up. Not just bills, but life. You know the kind of heavy mental clutter: work tasks, home errands, texts you forgot to respond to, and that creeping feeling that you’re always behind on something. It leaves very little brain-space for creativity, which sucks, especially when you're trying to be a writer. You ever notice how writing flows like a river when you're doing it just for yourself? But the second you sit down with a purpose — a deadline, a target word count, or (god forbid) the hope of earning a few cents online — everything freezes up. Inspiration vanishes. Words turn into cement blocks. Yeah, that’s me right now. I’ve got two articles in progress, and I keep staring at them like they’re in a different language. The motivation has just... evaporated. Has this been happening for the last three months? Yep. Do I go through this every year and forget about it? Also yes. Then, yesterday, my good writing pal James U. Rizzi dropped into my DMs with a gift from the poetic heavens — some prompts he picked up from a “Poetry Walk” he attended. First of all: Poetry Walk?? That’s a thing? That’s so cool. I wish I could've joined, but he lives in another country and, well, international travel isn’t exactly in the budget right now. Thanks, gas prices. Anyway, he shared a prompt with me. We decided to do a timed speed-write. Ten minutes on the clock. Go. I finished in eight. And not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but it felt good to write like that — fast, messy, instinctual. That’s my favorite kind of writing: no drafts, no overthinking, just pure word vomit. I can’t stand the slow perfectionist process of editing. I want to write like I eat popcorn during a binge-watch session: quick and fully immersed. That one little poetry session — let’s call it a spit session (gross, but also accurate) — reminded me why I love writing in the first place. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about doing it. So now I’m thinking, maybe that’s the vibe I need this week. A little poetry every day. Not for money. Not for perfection. Just for momentum. But hey — if a few pennies roll in from it? I’ll take them. Pennies help. Especially right now. Expenses are coming in hot and heavy, and I’m trying to set my family up the best I can. I also started karate again recently (which deserves its own post, if I can ever focus long enough to write it), and surprise: karate gear isn’t cheap. So yeah, if my poetry hustle helps me afford some sparring gloves, I’m not complaining. So, I googled “daily poetry prompts” and landed on a post with 365 of them. One for every day of the year. Today’s caught my attention right away. It's weird. It’s nerdy. It’s emotional in disguise. In short: it’s perfect. June 23 Prompt: “Crystallography of Secrets” Create a scientific study of how secrets form different crystal structures based on their nature. Include classification system and growth conditions. Use geological terminology to describe emotional states. Consider how secrets change under pressure. End with breaking open a fully formed secret crystal. Yes. THIS. This is the weird brain-stretching prompt I didn’t know I needed. So that’s the plan. A week of poems. A week of word-vomit healing. A week of seeing if I can make something beautiful from the burnout. Feel free to join me, read along, or cheer from the sidelines. I could use the accountability — and maybe a few poetic karate kicks to get through it. Let’s see what happens when you stop trying to force the perfect words… and just write.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Poets
Attempted Illumination
You reached the horizon in time. I'm still a millisecond behind but it's enough to make it last place. I'm always playing catch up and this game is wearing me down. I'm already running out of oxygen and you're well aware. You can't bother turning around and making sure I'm doing all right. All that matters is you. My lungs are heaving and I'm trying not to convulse too heavily. My breath is caught in my throat but you never noticed. Please don't leave here. I can't beg with my words because they will go unheard like always. I can see the rejuvenating sunlight reach the edge of the surface but I can't seem to reach it. I try to grasp the string of enlightenment but it always runs ahead of me. I can't escape the feeling of drowning nor can I flee from this desertion. You could never muster the strength to include me in your own arrogance. You created an egocentric universe with me worshiping you from my orbit. So close but always so far away. You've reached the finish line and have already celebrated your glory. I watch my attempt at failed illumination come to light. But my mind is suddenly now clear. The tension ruptures as you break free. This is a scene on replay. Over and over again, you continued to choose yourself. You've shed the anchor holding you down like I'm a weight forcing you to hold on. I can't hold on anymore. Please turn around and wait for me. My suffering has got to mean something after all this time. After all of this neglect, you left me stranded again once more. I've been jettisoned. I've been marooned while you enjoy the spoils of your feast. If this scenic ocean had a drain, you would have left me spiraling out of submission. The water is still. I am floating even though I am dying. I can't beg you to notice me anymore. The shallow waves match your insincerity. I have wasted precious time on you, hoping you would relieve me of this pain. Now the pain is subsiding. I am content in this mesmerizing abyss. The sea water is silent but my heartbeat is deafening. My pulse is weakening. I can't force you to care after all this time. You've reached the horizon and I won't be there to applaud you for it. I'm in second place but we both know it's always last. I can't beg you to turn around anymore. It all makes sense now. You will always delight in watching me drown
By Anna Torresabout a year ago in Poets
Emergence
I've been reduced to a dwarf planet. I lay bonded with the trauma at its core. The wound was invisible but still so painful. Discarded at the end and left abandoned at the the door. I was applauded once, enormous with potential. We reached our expiration date extremely early. I failed to crumble while you soiled my name. I abstained from doubt to preserve my identity. There was a hymn full of gospel and truth. A purge of discovery and exclusion. You were never on my team, never on my side. It was me versus you and everyone else under the sun., There was no reason for your madness. You trapped yourself in a conspiracy of your own making. I lay forgotten in the numb and the dark. My name is spoken in whispers where I'm still unseen. You didn't value any of my contributions. Your silence has given me much needed clarity. No closure or even apology why I must suffer. I've tamed the external chaos, now I'm focusing internally. I prospered so much without you. My orbit is lonely but I'm fine with no distractions. My imbalance does not alter my true status. I'm not defined by coordinates anymore, I'm now a celestial constellation. You can't get rid of me even though you've tried. I'll be beyond your grasp so pay me no mind
By Anna Torresabout a year ago in Poets
The Weight of Unfinished Heartbeats
There is a place where time does not flow—not forward, not backward, but sideways, like a river hesitating at the edge of a cliff. It is the pause between one breath and the next, the silence between heartbeats, where the unfinished things go.
By Mohsin Ahmadabout a year ago in Poets
The Vipers in My Mouth
The Vipers in My Mouth by [] There’s a nest of vipers that lives inside my mouth. I feel them there—coiled and twitching, always moving, always awake. They never sleep, no matter how still I try to be. Sometimes they seem calm, barely stirring, as if my quiet efforts to tame them have worked. But other times… other times they writhe, angry and impatient, pressing against my teeth like prisoners behind bars, begging to be let loose. I never asked for them to live there. I don’t even remember when they moved in. Maybe they were born of too many things left unsaid. Or maybe they grew from the harsh words I once heard — sharp, careless things that lodged themselves deep in me, sprouting fangs of their own. I’ve tried for years to train them. I’ve whispered affirmations to them. I've recited mantras and practiced silence like it was a sacred ritual. I’ve swallowed hard and counted to ten, then twenty. I’ve written letters I never sent, yelled into pillows, walked away when I wanted to scream. I’ve done everything I can to keep them asleep. But somehow — always — one slips through. It happens in the quiet moments, or when I’m trying to be funny. It sneaks into a joke, a comment, something meant to be lighthearted or clever. I open my mouth and before I realize it, I feel the sting — that sudden realization that I’ve said something wrong. Not cruel on purpose, but sharp nonetheless. The venom is in the tone, the timing, the twist of the words. And I see it land. I see the shift in the other person’s face — their eyes widen, their smile fades. The words hit harder than I meant them to. The poison sinks in. I try to take it back. To say, “Wait, I didn’t mean it like that.” But it’s too late. Venom doesn’t unbite. It spreads quickly, quietly, and all I can do is watch as it settles in their chest. The hurt I caused — accidental but real — now lives in them. And then it begins to live in me, too. Because when someone else hurts because of me, I hurt more. My chest burns with guilt, with shame. The vipers, now satisfied, curl back into their nest — but not without leaving me scorched. Some days, I catch the words just in time. I feel them forming and clamp my jaw shut. I swallow them before they slip through. But that doesn’t make it easier. That just turns the pain inward. The swallowed viper lashes around inside me. It tears through my stomach, coils itself tight around my ribs. The venom still comes, but now it burns from the inside. It twists through my guts and surges through my veins. I lie awake at night, clutching my chest, unable to rest. It would be so much easier to just let them go. To open my mouth and let the vipers strike whoever they please. To stop caring, stop holding back. To say whatever I want — no matter how sharp or biting. But I can’t. Because I’ve seen what that venom does. I’ve seen eyes cloud over, heard voices go quiet. I’ve watched people I care about retreat behind invisible walls — walls that I helped build, brick by careless brick. And I know: The pain I carry inside — the burning guilt, the twisting regret — hurts far less than the cold I leave behind in someone else’s heart when I let the venom out. So I live with the nest. I keep trying. I breathe, I write, I wait. And when the vipers stir, I pray for strength. Not to silence them completely — maybe that’s impossible — But to hold them just long enough To choose kindness instead.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Poets
