Featured Poetry - January, 2025
ZOMBIE
By Lynette Lim
When I am quiet, I can finally hear the scream......
A singular note, a low growl baritone,
the intensity of fingers on a chalkboard, a bad dream,
Piercing through my ears like an off key megaphone
It seems to rise from deep inside my belly my womb
At first a caterpillar gnawing at my insides
A lingering pain I can ignore , dismiss the doom.
But now my stripped bare skeletonized intestines decide.
I've bought countless tickets for my mind to LaLa land
Where rainbows bloom and sunshine drips like chocolate ice cream;
Leaving my body here to tackle the to do lists and the bland.
For the sake of being productive, to fit into that grand scheme
Meanwhile my heart is buried in the sand , hardly alive.
I am too busy to notice, I am dead inside.
Until I hear that scream from the divine.
The zombie outfit I wear is often where I reside.
I let the hot heavy tears flow from my eyes,
Carving river beds along the dry parchment of my cheeks .
My skin dampened by the humidity of human lies,
Drenched in the putrid smell of suffering that weeps.
I am fully human again.
ABOUT THE POEM: This poem describes the moment when a part of me realizes that I was in a dissociative state due to being completely overwhelmed.
ABOUT LYNETTE: Lynette, originally from Singapore, now lives in Bangkok with her family. She is an aspiring poet, writer and singer/songwriter.
Social media: @this_rawlife
A GLISTENING TRIGGER
By Iris Taylor
I knew within seconds
right there in the moment
A silent Oh no crossing
my mind when we rushed
the point of no return
Seconds became hours
the dull whispers building
to internal screams of
longing to follow
every glistening thought
Those hours shifted into
days and nights and pain
in between that sat like
a boulder at my feet
impossible to move
and it's been nine days
and I wish someone could tell
me how many more I'll spend
being crawled on by the ants
that escaped the rock
they escaped
that I never will
IN MEMORIAM: PAUL JONES
By James Aitchison
A hall of mirrors beckons, death enthralls,
Upon the golden path to suicide,
It’s time, said Mr Jones, a black dog calls.
Such fame, such power, only he recalls,
“The best of his age” he was classified,
A hall of mirrors beckons, death enthralls.
Defeat, in his bold mind, time now installs;
Too late to stop the ebbing of the tide,
It’s time, said Mr Jones, a black dog calls.
Reason has no place when fear befalls,
A life turned sour, no place to run and hide,
A hall of mirrors beckons, death enthralls.
A life so fraught and frail corrodes and galls,
And in this twilight park, none by his side,
It’s time, said Mr Jones, a black dog calls.
The aftermath of death no more apalls.
Good friends will search their hearts, be mystified.
A hall of mirrors beckons, death enthralls,
It’s time, said Mr Jones, a black dog calls.
ABOUT THE POEM:
It is a eulogy to one of Australia’s greatest advertising men, who took his own life in a Sydney park. He created the famous It’s time campaign which saw Gough Whitlam elected Prime Minister in 1972, after his party spent 23 years in opposition.
TAKE ME IN
By Garima Sachdev Kapoor
All I ask is this,
Do not push me away when it hurts.
Do not hide yourself
When the world feels too heavy.
Let me be a compass
When you are lost,
Your echo
When you feel unheard.
Together,
We can stitch our stories
Into one seamless moment,
Where time doesn’t matter.
Take me in,
And I will stay—
Not as a passing season,
But as a perennial.
Trust if you can
Take me in…
ABOUT THE POEM: A poem about hope and an enduring commitment …'Take me in', in essence, is about embodying a non-judgmental, nurturing space where someone struggling can feel seen, heard, and held, while trusting that they are not a burden and that their feelings are valid. It’s about being a steadfast companion in their healing, without trying to rush or control the process. The poet’s prayer is that we can all find such a grounding force during turbulent times, offering stability without trying to "fix" or diminish the experience of our struggling loved ones.
I DON’T
By R. Schilke
I don’t want to see
I don’t want to hear
I don’t want to smell
I don’t want to taste
I don’t want to touch
I don’t want to speak
I don’t want to lie
I don’t want to be true
I don’t want to feel
I don’t want to be still
I don’t want to be active
I don’t want to be known
I don’t want to laugh
I don’t want to cry
I don’t want to be
I don’t want to be
I don’t want to
I don’t want to
I don’t want ...
I don’t want ..
I don’t ...
I don’t ..
I don’t .
I...
I..
I.
Live
ECHOES
By Maryellen Polikoff
The family picture in my hand is skewed
in its polished chrome frame,
a captured moment staring at all
the lost moments you can cram in a shutter click
with me in the center
propped in Mother’s arms—what a nice story
we could be, but I can’t see my eyes,
my little face is pointed down.
The photo becomes an interruption,
alarm settling in with a rope-like quality
as pressure rises in my throat
and an old voice echoes up:
tickle, tickle, tickle
so much fun we have
he said.
Fingers define me.
Fear percolates, safety disintegrates,
panic twists thru a lifetime
year by year, weight on my belly
moving up my chest, now I’m on the wane
mourning the years spent in a game
that ends in a gasp forced from the past,
every touch, sorrow.
In another echo, contradiction jostles.
I’m tired of heavy hands in the sky.
Look here, I’m not laughing
(I really should be crying)
but the gurgle is surrender
time folds into the sound, hypnotic
quiet now, mommy’s resting
deep in the rooms that I learned to forget.
Under my bed, there are a thousand pages
shouty with bold print that reasons
with absent faces. Pages blurred with tears.
In an instant, a flashback flattens everything
that time has helped explain,
rewired attachments spark and snap,
boomerang back where
even the softest hands feel like weapons.
In perfect quiet, patting my chest in rhythmic code,
I remember my therapist, gathering tools
a new voice wants to know
who’s the intruder here?
(try this
it’s amazing what arms can do)
with a vintage tennis racket
a newly layered echo rises
from the center of a grey room
in the center of a red pillow
THWACK, my body is a new house
THWACK, my mouth is a doorway…
a gurgle becomes a growl > NO TRESPASSERS
a growl becomes a roar > MY BODY. MINE!
the roar becomes a wail > mother, look…
in my new house
stillness tingles in my skin
the wail becomes wind
wind becomes breath
4 beats in-breath
6 beats out-breath
4 beats rest
repeat
repeat
repeat
In this moment I’m an echo trying to find a halo,
all of my body young and old
is framed in bright light
and the faces in the photo are watching,
untangling metamorphosis
there’s a prayer on my lips looking for sky
my forgiveness
me loving myself
me freeing myself
I close my eyes, drift off.
Somewhere in the dark I’m running,
flapping my arms like a baby bird
taking off, climbing:
in this dream, even the tiniest wings will soar.
A-SY-LUM:
noun, a place of retreat and security
By Norma Zimmermann
My roommate Irene is crazy.
she calls 911,
asking them to come
get us out of here.
But no one is coming to save us.
She’s jumpy.
Her legs in her chili pepper
leggings are jumpy.
Her hair is straw,
marine style short.
In the corridor, bees buzzing in the fluorescent lights,
We wait
like prisoners,
sitting on cracked vinyl chairs,
counting the lines in the old gray linoleum.
It smells like Pine-Sol.
Irene fidgets.
That’s what Irene does,
she fidgets and carries on a conversation with herself.
Then, one by one, like Catholics lining up for communion,
we shuffle forward to receive our little cup of pills.
Irene spits hers out while the nurses aren’t watching.
Then we wait
in the cracked chairs
with the bees in the lights, for
Art Therapy,
Group Therapy,
Individual Therapy,
Music Therapy,
Medication,
Meditation.
It’s all too much.
It’s all too little.
My roommate Irene is crazy,
she calls 911,
asking them to come
get us out of here.
But no one is coming to save us.
ABOUT THE POEM: "This is a poem about my memories from being an inpatient at McLean Hospital, Belmont, MA. It is a reflection of the hopelessness I felt at that time."
ABOUT NORMA: Norma lives with bipolar disorder, and writes poetry about her experiences. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband of 49 years.
RENEWAL
By Caroline Allen
I’m looking for
Somewhere pure,
Gentle. Somehow,
The present poisons
The past as an
Author’s fate colors
Their work, perfumes
With incense,
Unravels innocence.
We only know
What to avoid
By seeing it, parsing
Whispered warnings,
Wrung out meanings.
And yet, there is
A place within, a
Wild, precious
Intersection of
Dying and being
Born recurring,
Simultaneous,
A wide-eyed look,
A clear deep breath,
Cool, flittering,
Like a song
Sparrow in my palm,
Or at least how
I imagine holding
One would be.
ABOUT CAROLINE: Caroline is from Raleigh, NC. She is an avid reader and finds writing and collage creative outlets for expressing and experiencing faith. Her work is published in Ekstasis Magazine, Poetry for Mental Health, and Solid Food Press. Her day job is working in administration and conference management at the University of North Carolina.
SHE WALKS WITH ME
By Ashe
No dad.
No guide.
No hands to hold her
when she cried.
No one to teach her
right from wrong.
No one to tell her
she was strong.
They said she was too small,
too quiet,
too weak.
But they never saw the pain
she couldn’t speak.
They saw her tears,
but offered no peace.
And their cruel love
came with a toll.
A price she paid
with parts of her soul.
She learned fear
in the night.
She learned silence
by force.
"Don’t speak," they said.
And she stayed the course.
Years went by,
her tongue held tight —
dreams fading away
with each stolen night.
What should have been love
now tasted vile,
each glance, each touch,
a poisoned smile.
A brother’s smile
that hid deceit,
love that twisted
to defeat.
A stepdad’s shadow,
cold and near,
turning comfort
into fear.
And a mother —
how she wished she’d see.
But if she did,
would she set her free?
Mother's eyes,
pale blue
like ice and stone —
cold as winter,
chilling to the bone.
They froze her words,
they made her small,
a burning glare
that warned of fall.
But when they burned,
she knew too well —
they carried threats
that promised hell.
The ones
who should have kept her safe
tore her down
and sealed her fate.
But fate can twist
and fate can change.
She fights to rise
and break their chains.
But the weight remains,
yet she won’t fall.
She’s learned to rise,
to stand tall.
It’s been the hardest fight
to win —
their deeds live on
beneath her skin.
The things they did,
the love they stole —
they shaped her world,
but not her soul.
She is not theirs.
Not anymore.
No more silence.
No more shame.
She’s not the one
to hold their blame.
I see her now —
the girl who fought,
who paid the price
and bore the cost.
I see her.
And I love her still.
She walks with me.
She always will.
I’ll guard her now.
I’ll keep her safe.
I’ll give her peace,
the love she craves.
I’ll be her guide,
her voice,
her light.
I’ll stand with her
through every fight.
She’s always been
a part of me —
the girl I was
and who I’ll always be.
No more silence.
No more chains.
I’ll wear my scars
but not the stains.
I am whole.
I am free.
My future belongs
to me.
No more silence.
No more shame.
No more fear
and no more pain.
I see her now,
and she sees me.
Together we rise.
Together, we’re free.
ABOUT ASHE: "I’m someone who’s been through my share of struggles, and writing has always helped me make sense of it all. My work was born as part of my healing process of remembering, reflecting, and trying my best to find sense in something that is most likely senseless. We’re all just trying to heal and move forward."
ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote 'She Walks With Me' as a way of honoring the parts of myself that I’ve had to fight for. It’s about surviving trauma and reclaiming your story. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s brought me to a place where I can finally say I’m free."
WHAT’S TRUE?
By Emily Astey
Once I was told to “make believe,”
to conjure what wasn’t real.
Watching clouds as they weave.
To harness how it would feel.
Unicorns sat for tea.
Princes ready with a kiss.
Mermaids play throughout the sea.
A mind so filled with bliss.
Routine it became at that age,
but I could not have known.
I had created the cage
out of which I’ve never flown.
I doubted shadows on the wall.
Feared the monsters below the bed.
How I clinched my favorite doll
no matter what my mother said.
To me those things still exist,
although not at my desire.
Something I know I would have missed,
a life reduced to mire.
I have to drudge through the mud.
The fear, it holds me back.
I’ve even sacrificed some blood
to try and fill the crack.
How do I know what I see?
Is this the hell I made?
What’s the next moment to be
as I remain afraid?
Now, I sit in silence,
waiting for the din.
Wondering about the violence
that is deep within.
I can’t cease to pretend.
It’s just how I live.
But I’d like this all to end
for that’s all I have to give.
All around things are not true,
although they’re seen and heard.
My sensations never knew
because they couldn’t say a word.
THE FLOWERS WILT ON THE WINDOWSILL
By Sara Ponferrada Reed
The flowers wilt on the windowsill.
The potential for great beauty.
Sunlight rejuvenates to a being nonexistent.
Colors draining to gray.
The scent of bliss instead decay,
the effluvia of death.
The flowers wilt on the windowsill.
Still, there is potential for great beauty.
ABOUT SARA: Sara is a 21 year old poet based in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA. Her work explores topics such as mental health, self identity, love, loss, growth, and her experience with Bipolar I Disorder.
I JUST LEARNED THIS
for V.H.
By Ruth Zwald
Seals in the Arctic emerge from the ice through natural holes.
Sometimes atop the ice the sun is shining and the wind not blowing
and the seal dozes, then awakens to find that the hole
they emerged from is now frozen over.
Inuit hunters believe that the seal looks for “water sky” -
a dark patch in an overcast sky that reveals a place
where light reflects poorly off open water. The seal
makes its way toward the dark patch, looking for
other breaks in the ice as it moves.
Most find their way back into the water, but some do not - eventually to die
alone of exposure, hunger and dehydration above the ice.
Oh my, I think.
And that is when I ponder you and all the times you found yourself with
only patches in the sky to follow and neither of us knowing if you would survive.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I walked with a friend through months of trauma recovery. She had great therapeutic support and support from her family and close friends. But it was still such a difficult time. When she reached the point where her mental health was stable, I wrote this poem for her."
ABOUT RUTH:
Ruth makes her home on a farm in Michigan, starting every dawn with good coffee. Loving the cycles of the seasons, Ruth watches the moon and never misses a solstice or equinox turning. In 2024, Ruth was the winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press Chapbook Contest for her collection entitled, “Bones And Breath.” She has also been published in “Voices de la Luna,” “The Ravens Perch,” “Bloodletters,” “Claw and Blossom,” “Blood and Thunder,” “Lifelines,” “Earth’s Daughters,” “Humana Obscura,” and “Farmer-ish Journal.”
DEMONS ON A BOOKSHELF
By Ella Grimes
I am not coping well if it is not already obvious
I feel like deadweight drowning
into the deep blue ocean
Fearing the unknown but not doing anything to stop it
Knowing the inevitable is going to happen whether I like it or not
Coping is not a way to stop the constant pain. But only a way to relive it; to “move on”
Is it even possible to move on when I was haunted for months? if not years.
Demons that I was told to shove into the back of a bookshelf never to be seen again, what happened to them?
I do not want a bandaid for my mind and heart. I want it healed and sealed up firmly with the best glue money can buy.
But that is not possible. I have to move on one way or another.
So I have to cope with those demons that never made it to the back of my bookshelf. Instead they stopped halfway paralyzed by fear
Just. Like. Me
ABOUT THE POEM:
"This poem demonstrates how anxiety makes you feel disconnected."
BLUEPRINT TO MY HEART
By Mike Gosalia
White is the sound
of the coastal blue waters.
Oval is the shape
of the pearl in the sea.
Looking for love,
I lost my bearings.
Tested by the devil,
only now I can see.
Now—smooth is the touch
of faded-pink marble.
Peaceful feelings I’ll get
if you stand close to me.
Gentle is the breath
of the petrifying Medusa.
If I can’t treat you right,
I’ll get cut so deeply.
It’s surprising to admit that only
through faith, did I master my sorrows.
Surprising in one way,
but quite apparent in another.
Love goes but then comes—
I must remind myself that often.
With few expectations,
there’ll be one woman in the crowd to choose from.
Simple is the path
to the burning heart.
If you like me and know I was lost for years—
you’ll say let’s make a fresh start.
ABOUT MIKE: Mike is a writer from Overland Park, Kansas. He studied English at the University of Chicago and received his MFA in creative writing from Pacific Lutheran University. In 2016, he published a novel called “The Drug from Mumbai” with Zharmae Press. For fun, he likes to compose songs on his guitar and piano, go for long walks on city trails, and play tennis.
FB: @mikegosalia123
HUES OF VIOLETS AND BLUES
By Wynn Vu
scattered lights
across the horizon.
violets and blues.
drooping flowers
throughout the garden,
morning dew.
refracted feelings,
feeling sad,
midnight blue.
pretty flowers,
blooming,
and thinking bout you.
1988 MAUDSLEY VILLANELLE
By Rabindra Anselm Mariathasan
A heavy silence for the penny drop –
I’m locked within a hospital Hell.
The cabbie’s ‘OH MY GAWD ….’ hits the treetop.
I know I must escape or else I’ll pop.
This place is not a home in which to dwell.
A heavy silence for the penny drop.
My feeling ain’t no freshers’ evening bop,
More like this mental patient’s fear to quell.
The cabbie’s ‘OH MY GAWD ….’ hits the treetop.
I trust the Lord will rescue ‘fore the chop.
My anguish waits for signs through which He’ll tell.
A heavy silence for the penny drop.
Now see the door unlocked, I didn’t stop;
A cab outside, I ran, I almost fell.
The cabbie’s ‘OH MY GAWD ….’ hits the treetop.
‘Where to Guv?’ says cabbie, in I plop.
‘Take me up to Heaven!!’ that’s my yell.
A heavy silence for the penny drop
Then cabbie’s ‘OH MY GAWD ….’ hits the treetop.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this true poem feeling that humour can sublimate the horror of the real. Jan 1988 – first psychotic breakdown with Opus Dei: treated 5 weeks in Barnet General Hospital, then left as a chronic outpatient with daily medication. Christmas 1988, (August 1988 newlywed) – second psychotic breakdown with Opus Dei, treated 5 weeks in the Maudsley Hospital, Lom. Then the penny dropped – I left Opus Dei for a slow recovery (36 years) as an outpatient with daily medication."
WHAT ARE YOU BURNING
By Harriet Coppard
What are you burning
I think it's your soul
You're breathing in smoke
That won't fill the hole
And when you breathe out
Your chemical pain
Your heart is still bleeding
Just numb from the pain
Emptiness comes
You know it so well
The hour of nothingness
Then breaking the spell
Dead ends and grey roads
You've been here before
Run whil you still can
Then run on some more
Escape this distraction
It doesn't exist
You'll get back the love
The love that you missed
And one day you'll look back
Look back and see
You rose up from nothing
And you will be free.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I write and rage but it helps with my mental health, addiction, BPD, loss and trauma."
IT WILL HAPPEN
Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.
(Dedicated to those who are struggling right now)
Some very kind folks are struggling right now
To make heads or tails of this monumental mess
Well I truly don’t have an exact answer for them
That sad reality I must verily confess
It hurts to see such good people stultified
Unable to break out of their gloom
Oh if only I had magic powers for real
To help their joy again blossom and bloom
All I can do is share my thoughts and poems
Share photos of the beauty of life
And hope they bring some peace and solace
To help relieve some of the stress and the strife
I will keep plugging away modeling kindness as well
Helping those who are vulnerable and in pain
It really doesn’t take much effort at all
And there is so much loving goodness to gain
No, I don’t walk a mile in your shoes for sure
Your journey is very different than mine
But I promise to keep on keeping on
I will toast to your healing with vintage wine
And hope that one day, not so far, far away
You will be healed of that stress and that strife
And once again see the rays of bright sunshine
That yearn to envelop your unique precious life
RIVER
By Anonymous
I walk slowly towards the river
I hear its voice speak to me
Off onward calm
To be had in it waters.
The wind caresses, its body.
Churning my fears away as I enter the river.
It's cold, but my breath beats with the pulse of the water.
As I swim slowly, free now of the culling webs of anxiety.
The cavernous voice of depression is drowned into its depth.
I sigh and feel my energy return.
And I laugh.
Turning round and round with glee.
Spraying myself with the droplets of hope.
And sing with the voice of water.
I have found solace at last.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: "I have suffered from mental illness since a child. I have Bipolar with schizophrenic tendencies. Writing is cathartic."
P IS FOR PERMISSION
By John Tunaley
Permission isn’t always required
So why then do I constantly seek it?
Or, behave as if I am actively
Avoiding ‘being told’? Acting as some
Kind of ‘rebel’ when the status quo is
Taking no notice anyway? … indeed
It looks surprised when the ‘P’ word is used.
The simple answer is … ‘I do not know’…
But if pressed to provide a theory,
It could be that I have an ‘Internal
Policeman’ … constructed by parents, school
Teachers, capitalism, Facebook, the
Ten Commandments … policemen … (and me of course,
Confusing myself and everyone else …).
ONE MORE MOMENT, YET AN ETERNITY
By Riley M. Frank
One more second, minute or hour,
Wait, maybe tomorrow or next week.
Then, for sure I will have the power
To enter the peace I desperately seek.
Yet, in the vast, null space of eternity,
The span of my life seems not so long,
But just enough to savor a kind smile.
Perhaps, then, my pain isn’t so strong
That I can’t wait such a small while
Before rushing headlong to not be.
NOVEMBER
By Abby Alexander
Warmth pulled away as my body began to pull forward from the dream of internal sleep,
No longer escaping from the living world, where the feeling all was there,
It's with me now, meanwhile, you have long forgotten me,
No one to wish a good morning,
I start the car, alone again. I’m late,
November's chill bites through my bones.
Here I stare at numbers and equations,
Yet the answer eludes me, hidden in the recesses of my mind.
Why does each day feel like a repetitive cycle of repetitive simplicity,
A personal hell where I resist the urge to give in to the chaos of choice,
Whether I shall do the undoable?
I must maintain control over myself.
In the final period, the truth dawns upon me,
Why would I choose this path?
No wallet, Only ID, a card in my grasp,
A girl unseen, a void where she should be.
It feels like the end, as if I'm already gone,
I know it is. So why,
Why am I dialing that number?
It's my lifeline, my chance to breathe.
I made the call, and they answered,
In the month of November.
They held me for a while, making sure I was close.
Took the gun out my grip, left the bullets
for they cannot give me freedom in my mind.
giggles beginning to pile, to trying to place a smile.
Strangers or family will guide you there.
A bed adorned with the decorations of your condition and truth,
A check on each of their boxes.
Each probing question bared my soul.
They lowered my guard,
In that moment of shared empathy.
a story louder than words, scaring them more than my thighs were.
In November, I found myself in a room,
Full of kids with minds like mine,
A lesson on life,
Opening my eyes,
I saw myself in them,
I saw my own pain.
Now I know,
I'm not alone within the darkness that is my companion.
A social time of community suppers, feasts of thanksgiving, and general elections,
Oh, why,
I am glad I didn’t go in November!
ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem demonstrates how anxiety makes you feel disconnected."
FALLING
By Mike Whiting
I feel like I’m falling
I feel like I’m failing
I feel like
if I felt like falling
I’d fail to fall
but if I fell
would that be a fail as well?
it’s hard to tell
a fear of failure
feels as real as hell
but I try to recall
the thoughts
of when I was small
failing to fall
isn’t failing at all
A DIFFERENT PATH
By Jason Kirk Bartley
I noticed that everyone was the same,
the same old path,
in life’s game,
striving for fortune and fame,
I noticed that I was not the same.
A different path I chose to follow.
It took me out past the old hollow,
where the solitude began to swallow,
But I still chose a different way,
not worrying about what others may do or say.
And there was rejection,
And there was wrath,
all because I chose this different path.
The others just watched in disarray,
surely, they’d chosen the better way.
Where the numbers could not be wrong.
This path I’d taken was least traveled, but had made me strong.
And many just sat and watched me go my way,
Many words they had to say,
Derogatory darts upon their mouths,
My path went North instead of South,
It was such a peculiar way,
But I started to see the light of day.
With a great cost,
Surely, I’d end up getting lost,
But they just all continued on their own path,
There’s strength in numbers,
But my way was unique, and it was mine,
It was creative and sublime.
However, it took a little more time,
Unexplored, lightly had anyone traveled,
They thought, I was ludicrous,
And had become unraveled,
‘Till one day I had prevailed,
A new path was unveiled.
Many began to choose this way.
It was more scenic and enjoyable,
most of all it was my own,
along life’s way.
ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem to explain that not everyone travels the same path in life. It's okay to be different. Its okay to be 'You'"
ABOUT JASON:
Jason is 49 years of age and struggles with paranoid schizophrenia daily. He is married to his forever love and wife, Nila. He has been through so much, but has been stable for about 18 years. He has a Masters degree in ministry from Ohio Christian University in Circleville, Ohio with honors. He has won many awards and been published in various places.
Share your Poetry for Mental Health ...
Would you like to showcase your poetry for mental health here on this website, as well as our Facebook page? If so, please CLICK HERE for further details and submission guidelines.