UNTITLED

By Luke Preston

Between strikes, the earth comes unwillingly in catapults of dusty loam. Revealed by a tired spade, whirled by a rusted man in the misted wood of a nearly forgotten alcove of melancholia.

“We die prisoners in our own tomb” he pours out of a stringent, rippling mouth.

Cavity agape, he lumbers in weary paces to the void. His abode for now, for ever. A place to recall the forgotten, to sit with its corpse, to beg the past’s forgiveness.

Hole covered, alone. Silent with the dark.



GET WELL SOON

By Autumn Johnson

She came back post a cancer scare

He came back after knee repair

You gave them gifts

Showed you care

But where’s my “get well soon”?

I can’t help but feel bitter inside

Can’t count the number of times I’ve cried

You shunned me

Made me hide

Still waiting on my “get well soon.”

People don’t understand what they cannot see

They turn their backs; ignore blindly 

I wish they knew how they made me feel

There’s no “get well soon” when you’re mentally ill

I want to sulk, bask in my hate

But further hurt that would create

I sigh, I cry

But stand once more

The one you closed, now an open door

To teach others from your mistake

People don’t understand what they cannot see

They need education so desperately

So they will know how others feel

And give “get well soon”s to us mentally ill

ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem while reflecting on feelings of rejection and abandonment from people I considered friends following a manic episode. People seem to know what to say in response to physical illness, but not mental illness. I realize some people don’t reach out simply because they do not know what to say. So I’m taking my hurt as an opportunity to educate others on mental health and ways to support friends who are suffering."

ABOUT AUTUMN: Autumn is a wife, mom, and nursing student living in the South. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder following the birth of her daughter. With treatment, she is in remission and now seeks every opportunity to advocate for mental health in her community.

THE DISPLAY KIND

By Braxsen Sindelar

You still call me your mannequin.

The kind without arms to pray

or the legs to kneel at your feet.

But I can’t remember, for I lack 

head and a competent brain.

Why dress what you cannot control?

Cut off the parts to get to that tight body.

The body you crave and display

in the window to flaunt and play

to your friends.

But those friends walk away,

coin in wallet and wallet in purse,

for your fashion is not their taste.

And they spit out their gum,

seeking something more in style.

ABOUT THE POEM: "I see each stanza as a stage in the narrator's life: accepting the toxicity, questioning it, then leaving with others; other people that happen to be with the toxic person in question."

ABOUT BRAXSEN: Braxsen is a writer and editor with an Associate’s Degree in English from Front Range Community College. He has worked and edited for the Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Plains Paradox, and Howl magazine. He has been published in Howl magazine for his poetry.

Instagram: @braxsen.exe

IT’S A DIFFERENT TYPE OF DOWNPOUR

By Amy Harris

when the storm is in your head.

Not in the world around you,

but your internal world instead.

When the raindrops keep on falling

but nobody else can see them pour,

you’re trying to protect yourself

and they’re all wondering what for.

They can’t see the raincloud over you,

They can’t feel it on their skin,

But it doesn’t make it any less real,

what you’re feeling within.

It’s the strangest feeling,

of drowning on dry land.

Fighting against the violent tide

and struggling to stand.

But all storms pass eventually,

even the invisible kind,

the clouds will part and crack,

and bring sunshine to your mind.

Positive thoughts are your umbrella,

your loved ones are your coat,

so you cling to all you can

just to stay afloat.

It’s so important to carry with us

That we simply never know

the storms other people are weathering,

the silent ebb and flow.