Mental Health
ART IS LIFE & A GIFT. Content Warning.
I wrote this earlier in 2025. Today I decided to create a video that I had in my brain. I am studying the new formats of AI. I use AI as a tool. Really getting bored with peeps who do not even want to learn the first concept of using AI as a tool. They go through pages of their colleague’s material and discard the material as they assume was created by AI. However, I used one of my poems I wrote in 1967. The result was it was 100% AI. In 1967 there was no AI, no computers, no cell phones, and no digital. So, peepers’ creepers of paranoia over AI research, write the author, ask them if they used AI to write. That is courteous to your colleague. I am 75 with degrees in nursing, business, and journalism. I studied real journalism not FOX yellow journalism. WE NEED TO BE KIND, SEARCH FOR TRUTH, RESEARCH BEFORE ACCUSATIONS TOWARDS YOUR COLLEAGUES.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
Inheritance
They say I have your eyes— but I think I inherited your silence. The kind that blooms in doorways and lingers in the sigh before a sentence. I watched you wash the same dish until it forgot it was glass. You said it was better this way— to be useful, than to be known. Now I’m here, mothering in the margins, folding myself into baby blankets and breastmilk, trying to remember what I used to want. Some days I don’t speak except in lullabies. And on the best days— that is enough. But I still look in the mirror for the girl who once believed she could fill pages instead of plates. And maybe she’s still there, humming under my breath while I do the dishes.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
The Weight of it
They told me breastfeeding would melt the weight away— like fat is obedient to love. But here I am, still wide in the mirror, still hungry in places no one sees. My body is a thrift store now— everything slightly used, a little stretched, not quite what it once was. I didn’t know that giving birth wasn’t the end of giving. I didn’t know my body would still be a home when I wanted it back. The world wants before-and-afters. Wants the snapback, the side-by-side proof that I survived with style. But I only have before-and-during. And a baby who holds on like I’m everything— not despite the softness, but maybe because of it. And maybe one day my body will be mine again. Or maybe this is what it means to be divine— to break, to hold, to remain.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
