Featured Poetry - August, 2026

A CORRIDOR OF STONE, A LETTER TO YOUR SOUL

By Tyler Hardy

Down the long, dark corridor where you were taught to hide,

Neglected by maternal love, with walls on every side.

Left to fend alone among the chaos of your home,

You built a fortress out of fear, a corridor of stone.

They starved you of a tender touch, they taught you how to mask,

And left a helpless little soul to shoulder every task.

You spend your life in agony, a phantom in the cold,

Desperately craving a deep love that you can tightly hold.

You search the world for sanctuary, begging to be found,

Longing for a saving hand to fix your broken ground.

But when my ocean came to give the peace you always lack,

The terror flooded through your veins, forcing you straight back.

You panicked at the magnitude of being loved so deep,

And sabotaged the only soul who held your heart to keep.

My inner knowing walked straight past your heavy screen,

I saw the rotting wounds you locked away unseen.

I navigated through your labyrinth, bypassed your bitter pride,

And walked down that dark corridor where you choose to hide.

I found that small, abandoned boy you keep locked up inside,

Refused the very warmth and care the world should have supplied.

I knelt down on that frozen floor, I kissed away your frost,

I tore my own soul wide apart to heal what you had lost.

I drank your liquid poison just to keep your system clean,

Absorbing all the toxic smoke that choked the space between.

I sat inside your darkness to resurrect your dead,

I carried every crushing weight you buried in your head.

I poured my spirit down your well until my pulse ran dry,

And stripped myself completely bare to keep your ghosts alive.

You fed upon my quiet light and left an empty space,

Convinced that someone else could be the cure to take my place.

And in return for bleeding out to keep your spirit whole,

You turned your panic into war to crush my mind’s control.

You tried to dim the brilliant light and weaponise the cold,

Then traded out a sacred love for temporary gold.

You fled into a hollow space to trade in temporary skin,

To hide inside your corridor where safety guards the sin.

I want to write this letter, a letter to your soul,

To find that little helpless boy who longs to be made whole.

Those walls you’ve built around you so tall and dark and cold,

Your purpose isn’t hidden there, no matter how they hold.

To build a life of purpose,

And break the chains deployed,

You have to face the truth of it—

And own the empty void.

I had to leave the wreckage,

Or drown inside it too,

To save the life you nearly drained

From me instead of you.

I know you have it in yourself,

Though shadows kept it blind.

It was never really all your fault

For what you left behind.

You were never shown the kind of love

That taught you how to stay,

So you built those heavy fortress walls

And locked what’s real away.

But walls can crack,

And ice can thaw,

When the heavy ice gives way, and bitter ghosts depart,

The child learns to breathe inside the broken heart.

ABOUT THE POEM: The poem is a narrative exploration of developmental trauma, psychological defences, emotional intimacy, and the emotional cost of trying to save someone who must ultimately undertake their own healing. This is my first submission for formal publication, and the poem is particularly meaningful to me as a personal exploration of compassion, boundaries and the recognition that we cannot heal another person for them.



A MENTAL HEALTH POEM

By Martyn Hesford

1.

I worry

it’s like water running in and out of every thought.

It doesn’t even have words,

It is there in everything I do.

It is gentle,

feeding me.

It is violent,

feeding me.

Waterfalls, raindrops, as hard and gentle as waves.

It is deep as the sea.

It is me.

There is no escape.

Only sleep.

A deep dead sleep.

2.

I am

inside

each

sob

It’s not just tears

I am

lost

in the ocean

I carry the ocean

I am

under the ocean

This sob

is mine

alone.

For you.

3.

I watched a ladybird

walking in eternity

from one end of the room

and back again

across a cold tiled floor

in the sun.

What was she looking for?

What was she trying to find?

She didn’t even try

to open

her little wings

and fly.

I looked to see if she was there today

but the ladybird had gone.

ABOUT MARTYN: Martyn Hesford is a screenwriter whose work includes the feature film Mrs Lowry and Son, starring Vanessa Redgrave, and the BBC drama Fantabulosa!, starring Michael Sheen, for which Hesford received a BAFTA nomination. He is bipolar II. His poetry collection Ash Light concerning love and grief was recently published by Grey Swan Press. “Heartfelt and profound: personal yet universal.” — Sir Ian McKellen ‘Like a light from the shadows’ — Holly Johnson.



1 IN 4

by Jo Whitehorn

We laugh and we joke, “Aren’t her antics such fun?”

But she’s left with the mess when the laughter is done.

The house is a mess… it’s too hard to clean.

And why does she always feel angry and mean?

They think she’s just lazy, but that’s far from the truth.

She’s tried harder than most ever since her youth.

She wished you could see she’s just wired this way,

Never quite feeling she fits in each day.

1 in 4 women couldn’t mask anymore.

The guilt was too much, too loud to ignore.

Always too much, yet never enough.

To some she’s too blunt, to others too rough.

Whenever she speaks, all her words come out crossed,

Her self worth becoming the ultimate cost.

She’s smart and she’s funny, so why can’t she succeed?

She tells herself she’s broken, anything else is just Nieve.

She can’t work for a boss, her filter’s gone missing.

She’s just not cut out for arse-kissing.

1 in 4 women can’t hold memories at all,

Can’t tell you where they’ve been or what they like to recall.

Imagine forgetting pieces of yourself as you grow,

Becoming so small because you simply don’t know.

The lights are too bright, too many voices in her head.

Her brain is all fuzzy, she forgot what you said.

She’s focusing hard, trying to hear what you say,

But her brain switched off, it’s wandered away.

How can she possibly bear one more day?

So many appointments missed, she wrote down the wrong date.

Time blindness again left her painfully late.

So many nights exhausted, still lying awake…

Shit, there’s a kid’s costume I still have to make!

1 in 4 women felt so horribly alone.

They were taught to push through,

Never grumble nor moan.

She went seeking answers. “Is dementia setting in?

Yesterday I found my bloody phone in the bin!”

“Life is so hard, I’m drowning, you see …

Or maybe life’s fine and the problem is me.

The voices, the fog… could this be psychosis?

I really need some kind of proper diagnosis.”

Yet every conclusion, in every society

“You’re a woman, my dear.

It’s probably anxiety.”

1 in 4 women were medically ignored.

The fight became more than they could afford.

They’ll say, “She should have called. She didn’t have to fight alone.” 

But she had ADHD …

She couldn’t find the damn phone.

1 in 4 women felt unbearable shame.

They didn’t know they were never to blame.

Overwhelmed again, back to bed she has fled.

And no, it’s not just because she forgot the bread.

Our minds are always racing,

Our hearts forever torn.

Tired of hiding behind

The masks we’ve always worn.

1 in 4 ADHD women attempt to take their own life.

They just couldn’t bear one more failure

As a mother, partner, or wife ….

ABOUT THE POEM: "Having recently discovered 1 in 4 women with ADHD attempt to take their own life, I wrote this poem so other women feel seen. I’ve never written a poem before, but in true ADHD fashion I hyper-focused at 3am to find how poem structure and rhythm works and this is the end result. It isn’t positive but it is intended for positive purpose, to help others feel seen and help prevent more ADHD deaths."

THE DEAD DON’T FORM SCARS

By Todd Matson

Memorials left in skin

by cuts and gashes from

broken glass, playing on

monkey bars, falling from

bicycles and trampolines,

colliding on soccer fields

where pain once hijacked

game faces, where wounds

penetrated several layers

of young, innocent skin. 

Tears dry. Scars remember.

Hidden scars telescoping

back to seasons of life

when symptoms of anxiety,

panic, depression, guilt,

shame, anger, self-loathing,

body dysmorphia, mistrust,

perfectionism, fear of intimacy,

sense of impending doom

took center stage – derivatives

which make sense only when

traced back to hidden origins

 – unspoken traumas hiding

in plain sight like colors seen

only under ultraviolet light.

Lit cigarettes sadistically

pressed against arms, legs,

torso at ages too young

to remember, burning 

through the epidermis

into the dermis, littering

skin with scars that resemble

small pox vaccines. Strange

how the body remembers

what the mind can’t.

Self-hate carved into arms,

legs and neck like cornrows.

Cuts self-inflicted to release

endorphins, feel numb, detour

mental and emotional anguish

through flesh for momentary

relief, to make the abstract

concrete, the intangible

tangible, to incarnate the

unremitting and unbearable

in scars that vicariously

remember what feels best

forgotten.

Despair engraved on

the underside of wrists.

Fibrous fossils of short

horizontal slashes, of

long vertical slices

meticulously following

arteries up forearms, 

shouting through a 

megaphone what

semicolons whisper.

Track marks archiving

a history of enslavement

to the pursuit of fleeting

synthetic heavenly bliss

speckling arms, hands,

feet, legs, neck wherever

arteries are found. Raised,

hardened, discolored skin.

Darkened lines from veins

collapsing after being

needled to death. Holes,

indentations where dirty

needles invaded, skin died

and departed. Thin lines

around skin grafts now

conspicuously concealing

and revealing horrors that

once were but are no longer.

Battle scars. Bullet wounds,

limbs stapled and sutured

at stubs adjacent to phantom

pains where arms, legs, hands

and feet use to be. Chemical

burns to skin, lungs. Post-

concussion scars seen only

on MRIs. Post-traumatic

scars that live on long after

battles end. Scars visible,

invisible, refusing to stay

silent, telling of heroic

sacrifices, sharing secrets

words refuse to tell.

Scars from battles fought

at home when death comes

knocking. Train tracks

running 8 to 10 inches

straight down the center

of the chest, 4 to 6 inches

horizontally across the chest,

diagonally from sternum

to armpit where breasts

used to be, 2 to 3 inches

along the lower right

abdomen. Scars chosen

to protect a beating heart,

remove rogue cells bent

on killing, prevent rupture,

peritonitis, sepsis, death.

Scars documenting in

human flesh stories of

fighting spirits, journeys

from victim to survivor.

And then there are scars

formed by mortal wounds

when death is deprived of

having the last word. Victims

of accidents and violence

who bled to death, stopped

breathing, amazingly returned

to life by CPR, defibrillators,

intubation, blood transfusions.

Yes, even mortal wounds form

scars when death is deprived

of having the last word.

Nail-scarred hands, feet.

A scar in his side from

being impaled by a spear.

Our Lord bled out and

died. We buried him in

a tomb. Miraculously,

he rose to life again with

scars to prove it was him.

He died and rose again

for us. By his wounds, by

his scars we are healed.

Celebrate your scars for

they are proof of life.

Badges of honor. Signs

of resiliency. Artefacts of

truth buried seven layers

deep that once discovered

set us free. Declarations

that death and despair do

not have the last word.

Your scars no longer

speak for you. You speak

for your scars. You lived.

Your wounds have been

transformed into scars,

and your scars have been

transformed into a source

of hope and healing for

others. For only the forces

of life can form a scar. The

dead don’t form scars. 

ABOUT THE POEM: "In a culture obsessed with stereotypical standards for outward beautiful, as well as fearful of being perceived as not having it all together inside, this poem attempts to completely reframe the meaning of our scars. Since I work as a therapist, the details in the poem are inspired by the very normal and resilient traumatized and hurting people who come to me for therapy as they seek to emerge from past traumatic experiences, to journey from victim to survivor and from surviving to thriving, with a deep sense of personal worth and dignity intact."

ABOUT TODD: Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist in North Carolina, United States. His poetry has been published in Feminine Collective, San Antonio Review, The Brussels Review, and featured in Poetry for Mental Health. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by several contemporary Christian music artists.

MIRROR OF THE MIND

By Anju Kapoor

I see myself in the mirror every day,

And what do I find?

A few frowns and a dry smile,

A few bruises and pain in my swollen eye.

Tethered feelings do not ride fair,

Weathered in thunder, dark stains adhere.

Emotions within me shriek,

Dreams to me appear terribly bleak.

I say sometimes to myself,

I write the best, when in a somber state.

Self-reflection is my mirror;

I ponder often what defines me clearer.

I know tests in life are very rough—

Good, bad, and ugly make a part of us.

Trying to hold on to what is not in my reach,

Making myself miserable - my bearing comes unhinged.

ABOUT THE POEM: This poem gives voice to the silent battles often carried within. It reflects how emotional pain and self-reflection coexist, and how writing becomes a means of processing and surviving insoluble dilemmas concerning health of the mind.

ABOUT ANJU: Anju is an avid writer and a visual artist. A Banking and Finance post graduate from the University of Mumbai, she has been a resident of Bahrain for almost 24 years. She is a bilingual poet, writing both in English and Hindi. Her sensitive emotions lends an illuminating voice to her poems. Pen and paper are her wings and rhymes her lifeline. She is also a Visual Artist, and enjoys Ekphrastic painting on canvas with a colourful visual description. She pursues her hobbies in cooking, gardening, and is an Indian classical dancer trained in Kathak. Her poems have been published in many anthologies, in English and Hindi, and shares her poetry on various Global Literary Platforms.

Facebook: @anju.kapoor.7



VISIBILITY

By Maddi Smith-Nelson

Living in the grey,

walking in the shadows,

don’t shine your light on me.

I’ll shrivel back into the soil.

To till the earth,

to assist the darkness

slowly returning,

feels like me.

Not buried exactly 

but a lantern visible 

in an empty house.

One that screams,

don’t come in.

This threshold 

is tainted.

My visibility is

shutting the curtains,

drawing the blinds.

Pouring a honey bath

to soothe the nerves,

living privately.

Looking at the fire, 

to slowly illuminate

what lives inside.

A SHADOW OF MY OWN

By Adam Pearce 

I know what I have, where I am and who loves me.

Yet, I don't love myself.

How can this be true? Reason should make this impossible.

Reasonable things got me this far.

Guilt compounds with sadness when I know it to be wrong.

How can this be right? Am I the common factor?

Did I lead this life, or did I let this life lead me?

Why should I blame myself when I am not sure if this shadow is my own.

I yearn to change, but a new path is unlit and unwelcoming.

I'll stick to what I know, this shadowy path is where I continue to go.

JUST A KID

By Tristan Porter

I always felt older than I was, but I realized I was just hiding the kid

It makes a lot of sense, looking back on everything I did

I took myself out of pictures, trying to remove the blemish

The standards I hold, make tranquility impossible to replenish

Darkness made me lose touch, like a coma; I wake up unaware 

I live through a heavy mask, my passions become my shunned affairs

I’ve grown ashamed for never achieving the kids aspirations

Too many flaws for me to accept, so I become a constant aberration 

Everyone has their puzzle, so many pieces I struggle to arrange

I’m stuck in an enigma between acceptance and change

A war stands between me and the life I’ve always desired

A fight I’ll never be ready for, leaving dreams only to be admired

The only common ground I have with anyone is recognizing that I’m broken

I gave up, leaving it up to faith - to being chosen

A CHILD LOST; A WOMAN FOUND.

By Lisa Taylor

Every memory that plays in my head

is a continuous reminder of a life already dead.

I am used goods,

easily discarded like yesterday's trash.

Nothing special.

A punching bag, a welfare check, a happy ending.

Just a means to an end.

A scumbag, a bastard, white trash.

Doomed since conception.

Destined to sift through remnants for any sign of an existence.

Labeled unworthy.

Hopelessly stumbling through the darkness for any semblance of light.

Left to mourn the pieces of a shattered innocence, one by one.

Forced to watch as you consumed them all

until there were none.

You were, after all, the master, and I,

merely a pawn.

To no avail, I have prayed to a higher power:

“Please release me from this life of sorrow.”

I beg of thee, my heart cannot bear it!

Still, it lies here constricted, buried deep in the wreckage.

Left to my own salvation, I relish the thought of a life

prematurely taken.

To unburden myself of all the shame.

To concede to the battles waging in my brain.

Achieving a euphoria I never imagined.

Blissfully numbing the pain of my own inactions.

Yet, here I remain, and still I rise.

Up through the ashes of the fires destined to bury me alive.

I will not quit.

Your flame will not thrive.

I am cutting off the oxygen supply.



BIPOLAR

By Leonore Wilson

I float in open waters,

a rowboat without an oar. 

I'm stuck in a burning building,

with every emergency exit locked.

I cried for my sons today.

I cried for my sons 

because their mother isn't better, 

I cried because of this affliction, 

this darkness that descends. 

The surface of my mind slips along 

like a pale-grey stream 

reflecting what it passes.

What do shadows hold?

Something? Nothing? I do not know.

Sleep, I say sleep, as the kettle boils.

Sleep, I say sleep, I desire sleep

like a blanket of heavy down.

Where is the song of the owl, 

the nightingale, wren?

I seek beyond fragments, 

I seek something unbroken.

Leaves shrivel as I look at them

and the woods vanish, 

the earth recedes. 

I find myself failing, fluttering, 

descending 

while the lost doves wail, 

and my offspring 

suck in their lips and tremble.



IN THE WILD

By James Aitchison

In the wild,

only one in

ten thousand oysters

contains a pearl.

In our wild world,

only one in

ten thousand people

becomes a friend.

Like pearls, friends are

treasures — wherever

you find them.

INSIDE HER MIND

Thy-Justice A Lumen

Inside her mind

That’s where you would find

A place where two different worlds would collide

Where she wouldn’t feel as though she has to hide

After burying her feelings deep inside

But now they ran as free as the tide

It was there within the ocean

That she saw her every emotion

They shimmered with light

The light upon the waves caught her sight

When the sun that shone upon them beamed so bright

It lifted her spirit and held her heart tight

No longer would she fear the darkness of the night

When the ocean whispered that she didn’t have to fight

The whisper that no one else could hear

The one that relieved her of all her fear

So despite the ocean not being anywhere near

Still, she could feel its atmosphere

And Inside her mind it was crystal clear

That she would return to the ocean year after year

It would relieve her of all her pain

And wash away her inner shame

She felt it deep inside her veins

That she was never to blame

And she knew she’d never again be the same

So now as she had stepped into the sea

Changed forever

And finally free

To be all she had wished to be

For it was the ocean

That made her see

That it would hold her heart

eternally

THE RAFT OF SALT AND STORM

By Anna Hostetter

I cast my line in murky, clouded deep,

Where promises are lies I’m forced to keep.

I ride the swells of calculated spite,

Beneath the storm-tossed roof of an endless night.

The lightning strikes—an anguish white and keen,

Reflecting only chaos, keeping me invisible and unseen.

A raft of splintered wood, a fragile seat,

Adrift upon a tide of a dark deceit.

My screams are swallowed by the howling gale,

No shore in sight to offer a sail.

The hunger gnaws, a hollow, starving ghost,

On this unforgiving, sunless coast.

I drink the salt, I pray for sweet relief,

But find only a drowning, salt-filled grief.

The ocean roars, transforming into a cold, indifferent friend,

Causing me to surrender toward the infinite, bitter end.

ABOUT ANNA: A survivor and a poet, Anna explores the intersections of trauma, memory, and the persistent, trembling light of resilience. Her work acts as a map of the internal landscapes we traverse when life’s foundations fracture. Anna is a writer of dark, gothic-inspired verse, dedicated to documenting the survival of the human spirit. Through her poetry, she seeks to turn the 'ruin' into a place of witness—where the wound is not hidden, but held and transformed. She believes that even in the deepest silence, there is a stubborn ember that refuses to surrender. She is currently dedicated to mental health awareness, advocating for the power of voice as a tool for healing and finding one's own pulse in the dark.

CLICK HERE to read more of Anna's work.

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