Featured Poetry - April, 2025
THE ODD ONE OUT
By Cynthia Foss
The awkward one, the one being misunderstood, the one on their own, the black sheep, the crazy one, the single friend, the clumsy, airheaded one ...
The unique!!!!
Never be anything other than unapologetically you.
Don't change who you are to fit in.
The things that make you weird always turn out to be your biggest strength.
Never change or try to fit in a box.
Don't restrict your limitations; how others perceive you is not your business.
Be unapologetically yourself; stay uniquely you.
Perfect.
MASTERPIECE
By K Hayden
It is only in retrospect I see
The creation of a monster
as terrible as me
The wild-eyed rages that filled my every hour
The forever-budded child mind
that just refused to flower
The silence and the sorrow
That festered into hate
The years spent in longing for
Then in crushing every mate
The twisted mangled friendships
That fell down about my feet
The simple rules to my survival
I still refuse to meet
This torn and marred and weary self
I have created- God at last
No hopes, no dreams, no future
Stuck in ripping through my past
This day I wake and full-hearted hope
This one’s the last I see
To realize- it makes me sick
I hate this one that’s me
ABOUT THE POEM: Masterpiece emerged onto paper as a single full formed thought without any previous intent. Its advent signaled to the author the need for immediate intervention, which was sought within hours of its creation.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: K Hayden is a 56 year old Bipolar Borderline with Complex PTSD, OCD, BED and GAD. Diagnosed as a Borderline at 26, and the remaining diagnoses at 35, she has had a long and arduous battle vying for control over her symptoms. She has been able to develop long-standing, deep friendships, but to date remains single.
THE YEARS
By Howa Ramadan
Counting all the years, holding back the tears
Anxiety, panic, nightmares and sheer fear
I’m in a place of Bermuda
Stuck in a triangle of mess
Chaos, suicidal thoughts I am depressed
As the years go by it never gets better
Just goes round and round
Yelling from the rooftops no-one can hear my sound
I am alone physically, mentally, mind body and soul
To be stable and break this addiction is my only goal
A head full of DNA and racing thoughts
Can’t work out what’s real or distort
Maladaptive behaviours
Drink, drugs sex and reckless sex sprees
End up at first falling to my knees
Then it gets worse I’m face down in the gutter
People walk past with judgement and just mutter
My heart is lonely and longs for love
A beautiful bond of growth and loyalty like two white doves
I cannot seem to shake this fear I am feeling
PTSD out of body experiences as I watch my lifeless body from the ceiling
Thirty five years-old am my crown is starting to slip
Losing battle man, abort ship
But I’ll keep fighting time after time
As the clock keeps ticking till that very last chime.
ABOUT HOWA: From the age of 8 to 11 Howa was sexually abused. At 12, she lost her dad of an aneurysm, in front of her. At just 13, she discovered drinking as a way of blocking out the abuse and grief. In and out of trouble with the police, at 18 she was sent to Holloway prison where she was diagnosed with bipolar. In 2012, she was also diagnosed with EUPD (Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder), and in 2023, she was diagnosed with complex PTSD and drug induced psychosis. However, she is now on the road to recovery - she goes to the gym, writes poetry, and is studying for a degree in forensic psychology.
TIKTOK: @howa.ayesha
FB: @howa ayesha ramadan
G(HOST)
By Pip McDonald
I have been living like a ghost for a long time,
Harnessing a hyperlocal half-life and self-imposed situated pains,
I am a quantum person, twice removed.
They said I would never reach my potential.
I am used to ‘here and there-ness,’
But I made the disassociation work,
I lived a half-life, drinking half cups of tea,
And making half friends, with half hopes and half tropes.
From ontologies to hauntologies,
From melancholy monologues to ghostly ‘gonologues’,
I have been a host for your haunting expectations.
Why would anyone do this to themselves?
It was the dead part me doing that.
Should I continue being a host or a ghost, or ‘ghostier’ ghost,
And float around, from imagined pillars to broken posts?
Here’s a half-answer to the half-question.
If I can turn myself into a ghost, then I can turn myself back.
A ghost? I am more than that.
ABOUT THE POEM: "The poem explores the lived experience of isolation, disassociation and alienation as the result of OCD. Ultimately, the core message of the poem is that despite complex barriers and difficulties, it is still possible to reclaim who you are."
HOW I SEE ME
By Jason Kirk Bartley
How I see me,
is a game-changing way.
How I see me,
can change my whole day.
Though others may not be able to see through my dirt.
I'm so proud of me,
since I was a little squirt.
And though there are bad choices that I always make,
And some bad roads I've traveled,
the wrong ones I often take.
How I see me is all that matters
and then,
the choices I've made in my past back when,
leave me sometimes hopeless,
I do not know where to begin.
These choices lead me to today,
and all that I be,
I'm unique and creative,
painting a picture for the whole world to see.
How I see me,
is more important than how others would,
'Cause I know that I'm often misunderstood.
I know me the best,
I know what I can do,
above all the rest,
when I am finally through.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem to display that it doesn't matter what people think you are, only you know what you can do and who you are. There is hope"
ABOUT JASON: Jason resides in Ohio, USA. He is married to his forever love Nila. He is 50 years of age and struggles daily with paranoid schizophrenia. He has been through so much, but has been stable now for close to 20 years. He has a Masters degree in ministry from Ohio Christian University, has won many awards for his writing, and has been published in various places.
MENDED
By Celeste Bowling
Life is full of joy and sorrow
I often wonder about the events of tomorrow.
You are unable to see how I truly suffer
Although you say it will make me tougher.
It is just in my head you in say
While I just want to make it through the day.
Take my medicine like I am told
If I don’t you will put me on a seventy-two hour hold.
Pills and doctors are my only option
But there are so many that it is just a concoction.
Therapy seems like it will teach me to cope
However, talking to a therapist makes me feel like I have no hope.
Self-medicating just seems more appealing
When I just do not want to deal with my feelings.
I do not tell you what I am doing
Because I know your anger will be brewing.
Eventually, it all comes to a head
I am not sure if everything will end.
Call my mom and tell her to come
Tell her you have no idea where this came from.
Off to the hospital we go two days later
Because I needed something greater.
No one wanted to keep me there
They said I am your responsibility to bear.
Many months of doctor appointments
Just so I do not become the family disappointment.
You came to the doctor with me too
This way you would recognize what I could do.
Life was beginning to get more clear
Things are changing, I promise dear.
The kids will love to see me happy
Even if at times I am still slightly snappy.
Years have passed since it happened
Yet here we are still a bit saddened.
Everyone calls it my “episode”
Just to lessen their emotional load.
Giving up is not a choice that I take lightly
Even though sometimes I think about it nightly.
My kids mean way to much
And I am sure they would miss my touch.
Saying good-bye to my ghosts
Is really what allowed me to heal the most.
My emotions continue to be everywhere
To the point that I sometimes sit in despair.
I am where I am meant to be in my life
I swore I would never lose this fight.
My time has not ended
I am simply mended.
STEPPING INTO THE LIGHT
By Kelly Maida
There is a whole long road on the other side of here. Spirit helped me to put down my fears.
Stepping out of the shadows and into the light. Ready to finally start living a brand new life. This space was too dark and it tried to put out the light. Spirit stepped in and showed me how to fight. I’ve been lifted up and I’m ready to shine. Dusted myself off. Now it’s my time!
ABOUT THE PIECE: "This piece is about what it feels like to get out of depression. It was a combination of seasonal depression and living in a depressing small apartment building that had a lot of issues. I finally made the decision to move. Sometimes we can feel trapped in our surroundings."
MY SILENT SCREAMS
By Emma Welch
The constant silent screams are loud in my head
Please find me a place that is calmer instead
The screams are deafening, you must hear them too
No, you don’t know my face is smiling at you
If you knew the tough anxiety I face
Maybe one day I will show you just a trace
For now, I will battle in silence and smile
That way, you will think I'm okay for a while
I can be the best Mum that I thought I'd be
The wife who is happy and feels so carefree
The friend you can count on at a time of need
The one who will cheer you on so you succeed
Back to the screams, they are getting very loud
Looks like I'm walking around with a black cloud
Sometimes I just feel so alone with this fear
My brain can't think straight it’s like nothing is clear
Am I the only person who feels this way
Are others just smiling too, but not okay?
Like the waves, the anxiety comes and goes
It lingers in the room amongst the shadows
In the quiet moments in the simple things
I find some peace and some calm which the sun brings
The bright blue sky where the birds sing a nice song.
How I close my eyes and start to hum along
In these moments, I find some solace and peace
The stress that cuts deep in my veins can release
At that moment, I will choose to be in my quiet haven, to feel inner serenity, and to know that I can breathe again.
ABOUT EMMA: "I am a happily married mum of one beautiful young boy from Berkshire in the UK. I have had anxiety throughout my life, ever since I was a teenager. My anxiety became a lot worse since having a lifesaving operation at just 22 years old. I have a very supportive husband who can calm even the most stormy of waters. I feel blessed to have the support of all my family and friends. I write my poems to help offload my mind a bit, like somebody would use a journal. I hope my poem will make people feel less alone, as that is how I feel when I read others."
THE WHAT WAS RIPPLE
By Andrew Farrow
Be well, move well, step out, see the world,
speak your truth, but hold what you know.
It’s possible that the fact’s an act, a fractal trace,
a pact not to be cracked, echoing into empty space.
What is what was, is not because, what is not what it was, now it claws.
But even as it claws, the threads unwind, revealing signs, a light to find.
Yet through the haze, patterns reform, a storm now the norm,
bends, refracts, finds a way, shifting light at the break of day.
There’s a ripple in the middle, don’t fiddle, or twiddle with the riddle,
It’s brittle, it’ll sting a little.
There’s a spark in the genes, like a whispered code,
hidden deep in the folds, waiting to corrode.
Listen, hear the rhythm slip, it’s a beat, a hum, a drum that runs,
it flips, it twists, rewrites dreams.
Feel the shift in the script, the drift in the grip,
truth bends, splinters, breaks, and sways,
like shadows dancing in sunny rays.
In the cracks of the mirror, something calls,
a voice that hums, that glows, and rises as the curtain falls.
A ripple’s a whisper, the current below, you chase it, you face it,
embrace what’s unseen, a pulse in your veins, a life in between.
What lies beneath is not to fear, the ripple leads where hearts can draw near.
So, be whole, stay true, seek new, and trust the spell of the spin,
the ripple begins where the heart draws in,
its rhythm spreads deep, life starts again.
ABOUT ANDREW: Andrew recently spent four years in social care as an area field supervisor for a domiciliary care provider in West London. He also used to be a peer support officer and facilitated a weekly creative working group for disabled people, including those with mental health conditions. His poetry often delves into the emotional and reflective aspects of life, touching on themes that align with mental wellbeing and personal transformation. He hopes his poetry can resonate with readers who find solace in poetry.
BALLAD OF THE FALLEN ANGEL
By Spruce Craft
Here
We were
Nothing is more than a blur;
Shaky hands,
Shaky breaths,
These memories
Are something I could never forget.
Here
We were
You let me fall
Torn apart,
I screamed
These memories
Are something I wish I could forget.
Standing ablaze
Hurt less than the days I stood with life in a blur.
Now,
I return to this forgotten place.
After centuries hiding from these memories,
It now only solely serves
As my very own grave.
FAMILY
By Susannah Chatfield
Unconditional love is a wonderful thing.
They make me laugh.
They let me sing.
When I get grumpy,
they don’t hold a grudge,
and if I get crazy,
I know they won’t judge.
If I’m thinking clearly,
or my head is in a muddle,
I can go in for a hug.
I can ask for a cuddle.
When I’m feeling frightened,
when I start to cry,
they make me feel safe.
They help me to try.
If I’m larger than life,
or smaller than small,
they take me as I am.
Oh, how I love them all!
Opinions may differ,
and moods may swing,
but unconditional love is a wonderful thing.
A TASTE OF MEMORY
By Shyla Register
Trauma lingers in the still of the night,
A shadow that whispers, a tremor of fright.
Almost a decade has passed, but the pain remains,
In the corners of my mind, where it still leaves stains.
I wonder if it’s normal, if others too,
Feel haunted by moments they can't undo.
I choke on the echoes of a long-forgotten past,
Of men with cruel laughter, their shadows still cast.
A child, alone, on a warm summer's night,
Minding her business, unaware of the fight.
Four grown men, in their twisted game,
Pouring fireball, laughing at shame.
Why does it stay, this bitter taste?
Cinnamon burns, a memory misplaced.
Though I wasn’t touched, I still felt the sting,
Of their cruel laughter, a song they would sing.
I try to convince myself it could’ve been worse,
That I should be grateful, that it’s just a curse.
But that doesn’t ease the ache in my chest,
The trauma that lingers, the wounds that won’t rest.
They didn’t touch my body, but they stole my light,
Left me hollow, a ghost in the night.
I couldn't overpower them, I couldn’t fight,
So I let the tears flow, a silent plight.
The laughter still echoes, it rings in my mind,
Do they think about me? Do they feel the bind?
Or have they forgotten the girl they made cry,
The one whose voice they forced to die?
I dissociated that night, out of fear,
My soul left my body, unable to hear.
They didn’t see the ghost in my eyes,
But my cousin knew something was disguised.
She wanted revenge, but I begged her to stay,
Too terrified to see their faces that day.
I regret it now, I should’ve made them pay,
But would it have changed what happened, anyway?
I just wanted to be with her, to laugh and to play,
But that night, they stole it all away.
The memories now haunt me, the dreams take flight,
Of seeing their faces again, in the dead of night.
I wake in terror, gasping for air,
Cinnamon on my lips, but no one’s there.
I try to write it down, to release the pain,
But the hurt stays with me, a never-ending strain.
I joke that I’m ugly, undesirable to see,
But maybe that’s a way to make men leave me be.
Would it have stopped them, would it have made a change?
I’ll never know, though the question remains strange.
For every nightmare that haunts me tonight,
There’s always a glimpse of something bright.
Maybe it’s the way I’ve learned to cope,
Finding a thread of hope, in a world full of smoke.
So, I’ll take a breath, and let it go,
Maybe one day, I’ll finally know—
Why trauma stays, and why it stays long,
But for now, I’ll keep writing, to stay strong.
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