TWO FACES - ONE HEART

By Melodie Michelle

I’m a wildfire spark 

— and a quiet slow stream — 

two sides of a soul 

stitched into one dream. 

I’m the rush of a moment 

— that won’t let me be — 

and the still, sacred silence 

that’s always been me. 

I’m the scatter of thoughts 

— racing through my mind — 

and the comfort of patterns 

keeping me aligned. 

I’m the leap without looking, 

— heart on my sleeve — 

and the girl who needs order 

just to breathe. 

I’m the loud, laughing lightning 

— dancing too fast — 

and the soft‑spoken watcher 

learning from the past. 

I’m the one who forgets 

— what comes next — 

and the one who remembers 

every feeling in text. 

I’m the rhythm of chaos, 

— the hum of routine — 

the woman who feels 

every crevice in between ... 

I’m the mask I perfected 

— so no one could see — 

and the truth that keeps whispering, 

"Just be MeL … be me." 

I’m the child who felt different 

— with no words to explain — 

why the world felt too loud, 

too sharp, 

too plain. 

I’m the grown woman now, 

— learning to say — 

these two sides of me 

were meant to stay. 

For I’m ADHD’s fire 

— and autism’s grace — 

a storm and a sunrise 

sharing one space. 

Not broken. 

Not wrong. 

Just beautifully free — 

two faces, one heart… 

and that heart is me. 

ABOUT THE POEM: "AuDHD dual diagnosis for autism and ADHD. "When my ADHD takes the lead, it feels like I'm gripping the reins of a wild chariot trying to steady horses that want to bolt in every direction at once. My mind becomes an open browser with tabs multiplying faster than I can count, and my mouth sometimes fires off whatever thought shows up first, long before I've had a chance to filter it. When my autism steps forward, everything tightens and sharpens. I become focused, intense, detail‑locked, socially unsure, and buzzing with quiet anxiety. It's the part of me that hits the brakes, while my ADHD is the part that slams the gas. Together, they make me the driver I am not perfect, not predictable, but balanced in a way that only I can be."

ABOUT MELODIE: Based in the American South, Melodie's writing offers a raw, honest, and uncensored look at the struggles of mental health and life, aiming to offer hope and remind readers they are not alone.

MONDAY MORNING

By Tim Boardman

It’s Monday morning

and I’m driving to work,

mind back somewhere

along Breary Lane.

The windscreen’s sticky—

sap from the trees above the car at home.

I should clean it

but it only smears

and I haven’t slept.

It’s 7:10.

I can still see

the ghost of my dad

walking

at the bottom

of Breary Lane.

Old song on the radio—

I know it,

it seeps into the commute.

Dad is

on the way

to buy a Yorkshire Post,

cloth cap

slightly askew.

Always that cap.

Old man, take a look at my life

I’m a lot like you were

I catch him

in the wing mirror—

shirt and tie,

that familiar waddle.

Strange—

I never wear a tie.

Never have.

Not out of principle,

just sheer bloody mindlessness.

I need someone to love me

the whole day through

Head down,

determined

to beat the newsagent.

Never had it delivered,

not until the end of Bramhope.

He’d try to slip away,

always trying to get back

to a house

from years ago—

some version of home.

I’ve been first and last

Look at how the time goes past

And I drive on,

leaving him

in the rearview blur

ABOUT TIM:  Tim, a poet from Otley, West Yorkshire, crafts lyrical, intimate pieces that illuminate ordinary life, blending reflection, memory, and gentle storytelling into moments of subtle emotional resonance. A devoted family man, Tim balances his life between his roles as husband, father, teacher, and poet. His work celebrates those intersections — where care meets creativity, and where everyday life becomes poetry.

FB: http://facebook.com/groups/588235645977509 

THE ATTIC

By Alan Gumbley

Stumbling through my attic,

I haven’t been here in a while.

So many different boxes, most of them fragile,

So many things stored in this room I’d forgotten existed,

Cobweb-covered memories, beams and walls so dark and twisted.

It’s silent in this space tonight, the moonlight through the cracks,

A room filled with such disarray, yet the boxes neatly stacked.

As my steps are filled with caution, vulnerability exposed,

Not long till I’m reminded why this room stays firmly closed.

The first shelves filled with trauma, labelled from the age sixteen,

With dusty bags of guilt and shame, all tattered in between.

The wooden ceilings are rotten and the floorboards are a state.

Structurally warped as if the room can’t hold its own weight.

The taste is thick and heavy making it hard to breathe.

Yet a longing to venture further overrides the urge to leave.

The shelves go on forever — feels like I’ve been up here for years,

Different containers litter every turn reading regrets, failures, and fears.

Some boxes left unpacked and some firmly locked and sealed.

A numbness leads my footsteps I’m finding it hard to feel.

It’s dark in here with no clear path so easy to get lost.

If happiness is linked to butterflies then I think mine just turned into moths.

Piles of shoes I used to walk in,

A pair of storm damaged boots.

Broken plant pots with dead flowers stem from deeply planted roots.

I thought that I’d thrown all this out; I was sure that these were gone.

Why am I still holding on to this — I thought that I’d moved on?

Jars of tears, still wet and clear, lay on the rafters up above,

Sealed with stoppers made of promises, ribboned with years of misplaced love.

The air is suffocating here; the walls are dark and dull.

A box labelled Lessons Learnt is next — not much in here, just half full.

An unfinished painting titled My Self Worth hangs on the wall,

In tones of black, grey, and rust — no bright colours at all.

Next, there are some pictures of my father, far too few to mention,

Stapled to a torn-up note and envelope marked Seeking Attention.

A book lies to the side, full of questions I never asked.

I really should have opened that before the day he passed.

Sometimes up here I hear his voice, as if he’s by my side —

It’s ironic; I feel him closer now than when he was alive.

A small pocket watch, sealed tight, engraved with Forgive and Forget —

I’ve never had the strength or time to prise that open yet.

A mirror in the corner; the glass is broken, hard to see.

Every time I’ve looked in it, I’ve seen a different me.

Maybe I should fix the glass, but that takes skill and close inspection;

It would be nice someday to take a look and see a true reflection.

Upon entering this room tonight, I wanted to declutter plenty,

But now I fear if I throw them out, the space would feel too empty.

Maybe next time will be different, but for now I’ll let it be —

I feel safer knowing it exists somewhere I cannot see.

Time to leave — been here too long; for now, this room can wait.

I hope someday I find the reasons needed to redecorate.

The moonlight’s turned to sunshine, casting its shadow wide,

So I’ll close the attic door once more — all its contents locked inside.

LOSING MYSELF

By Shankar Khatiwada

I am losing myself , I am not being me 

Psychotic cycle, depression dragged me down to knee 

Reading Bible, worshipping the god may be the key 

To overcome what I face and to live normally 

But I can't keep my focus on one thing, 

I get distracted easily 

I tried to join the gym and get well physically 

But I lost my interest in two weeks 

I have been down mentally 

Fighting with the thoughts that testing me

I ain't writing these words jestingly 

I been trying to tell you what I barely speak 

I whisper the truth I tried to hide

There is no single day when I feel not to die 

I don't wanna live, I don't feel anything right 

But before I leave I want to destroy everything that comes in my sight 

To this version of me, I myself stayed in fright 

I can't even face the day let's not talk about the night 

Still I wake up and walk like everything is all right 

I been praying 

I been hoping 

I been looking for a sign

Trynna piece myself together but I am running out of time 

These words are my pain , I cried all the time while writing a single line which you can't ever redefine

Feeling high , feeling low , it's a roller coaster and I can't escape 

I am fighting with these thoughts that constantly reshape , 

It's a real pain 

And pen is the only option that I have left 

to write down all the thoughts on paper washing my brain and drain out the only way to maintain myself.

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