A HOLE IN MY SOUL

By Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.

If I told you I had a hole in my soul right now

Could you relate to being in such a stressful state?

Somatic symptoms throwing an unwanted party for my body

Not knowing what will be our eventual fate

Is my brain just imploding from the news that I hear?

Even while ignoring what pops up on my screen

I have a good feeling you can all relate

It’s not as if this was at all unforeseen

Not to worry dear friends 

This vintage soul isn’t giving up

Just letting you know I too feel the pain

Yes evil has temporarily carved a hole in my soul

Put a tightly clamped vice on this well seasoned brain

I know not where this will all lead

So many game changers yet to step up to the plate

Including each of you kind caring knowers of truth

And together we won’t let the evil determine our fate



IS ANYONE AWAKE TO LISTEN?

By Anonymous

Is anyone awake to listen? 

Or is it just my voice being heard? 

Or is it just some words being said, 

That were made up inside my head? 

Along with some other problems 

That make me feel like I'm insane, 

That make me feel like I'm not okay, 

And that I should just go away. 

Not temporary like the coldness of an ice pack 

You get from school when you've hurt your back, 

From bending too much to get the ball during gym class — 

The only time stress you lack. 

And it's replaced with innocence, 

As if you were younger while the air is cool, 

And the sky is blue with no clouds in sight, 

Laughter being heard from you. 

Is anyone awake to listen? 

As the years fly by and time changes, 

As we all grow up too old to care 

About things that make ‘no sense’. 

“What is hide and seek? I've never heard of that,” you say, 

But silence fills your words; 

When in reality, you know what that is. 

And the innocence you've yet to find is replaced with sorrow, 

And stress as you feel like a NASCAR tire. 

Burnt out, pressured, pain is your desire, 

As you remember the times you've been on fire. 

Anger clouding your mind, the skies 

Raining like a cigarette lighter. 

It's everywhere, no matter where you go, 

No matter how much you hope 

To go back to ground zero. 

Is anyone awake to listen? 

As I play Spotify over and over. 

The music encasing my soul like resin or a Mason jar, 

Shut on tight like the tension in war, 

To make sure no one dies or fails to do their job, 

Impacting everyone's safety around them. 

Impacting my sacred social workplace, 

Whereas social as it gets is a library, 

Where you have to whisper to be heard 

And try to be so quiet. 

Except everyone can hear you, 

And it hurts. 

Because they'll use it against you no matter how hard you try, 

And try, and try, and try. 

Because they just want to put you in the valley 

When you are at your peak. 

You'll never get to that exact spot 

You once stood to speak. 

Is anyone awake to listen, 

Or am I just making excuses? 

Am I the boy who cried wolf? 

Or are my thoughts just meaningless? 

No, no, I take that back. 

My thoughts have meanings; 

It's just the words carefully spoken 

Are the ones that fail to replicate my feelings. 

And realize that stress, judgement, embarrassment, regret, anger, annoyance, anxiety, depression, isolation, concern, and forgetfulness 

Are the ones that I don't lack. 

Because stress is like a school day, 

And anger is like fire. 

Depression is being underwater, 

And forgetfulness is what matters. 

To others as I stay concerned 

About their needs rather than my own. 

Regretting my choices to work on myself 

Every time I'm out of the school zone. 

Embarrassment from the isolation, 

And how my choices tend to backfire, 

Resulting in anxiety, thinking it's my fault 

For even lighting the fire. 

Without intentions to annoy anyone, 

Yet they annoy me. 

“You don't have a right to complain.” 

Yet my feelings are felt by me. 

“Judgment is the most controversial power us human beings possess.” 

This quote above has spoken the words I've yet to verbally express. 

Is anyone awake to listen? 

As I express the burnt-out silence I once felt. 

That’s easy to enter but hard to leave, 

Reminding me of bracelets I’ve made while at peace. 

That’s like a puzzle I’ve yet to figure out, 

While the answers are right in front of me. 

So why can’t I see 

That no one is awake to listen to me? 

DROWNING

By Alexis W. H. Chung

I know the sea is supposed to be beautiful,

A vast expanse of waves,

A blend of blaze and coldness,

A place that should have calmed me,

Should have soothed me.

But it never does.

What I remember is the way you drowned me,

The way you taught me to survive,

Not with strength, not with love,

But by sinking deeper,

By letting the ocean pull me under,

By teaching me that survival means losing yourself.

I still remember sinking,

Alone in the depths,

Wrapped in the sea’s cold embrace,

Crushed beneath the weight of silence.

No light. No hope.

No one coming to save me.

I know I am safe now,

On solid ground,

Far from the waves,

Far from the deep.

But the sea never leaves me.

I feel the pull,

The sensation of drowning again,

The suffocating weight,

A nightmare I can’t escape.

Over and over, it replays in my mind,

A cycle I can’t break.

I know the water is gone,

But it’s always there,

A drowning that never ends,

A fear that never fades.

ABOUT THE POEM:  "This poem reflects the regular flashbacks I experience, rooted in a traumatic memory from when my mother attempted to teach me how to swim by drowning me at the age of five. The memory remains vivid to this day, as if I’m still submerged in that moment. Even now, I often feel like I’m drowning, despite being on solid ground, safe and secure. The fear still takes me by surprise, no matter where I am."

HUG

By Alexis W. H. Chung

I know a hug is supposed to be warm,

A comforting embrace,

A gesture of love.

But I never feel it.

It’s cold, like steel,

So sharp it burns my skin,

A pressure that never soothes,

Only leaves me aching.

I know I’m supposed to feel loved in a hug,

To feel warmth and tenderness.

But all I feel is the disconnect.

The oxytocin, instead of softening me,

Feels foreign, feels sharp,

A sensation I don’t understand.

Distant. Cold. Like something

I was never meant to feel.

How is a hug supposed to feel?

Why does everyone else seem so happy with it?

They smile, they embrace,

But all I can do is stand still,

A mask on my face,

Showing no expression, no warmth, no connection.

Why does it feel so wrong,

When it’s supposed to feel right?

Why can’t I feel the love others say it brings?

ABOUT THE POEM:  "This poem delves into my complex relationship with hugs, which I feel have been distorted by a lack of love in my past. Despite having a deeply loving partner now, I still struggle to accept hugs in a way that feels natural. Instead of the comfort others might find in them, I dissociate during every embrace, experiencing it as uncomfortable and strange rather than soothing."

ABOUT ALEXIS: Alexis is an Australian scientist with a deep passion for both science and art. She believes in the inter-connectedness of these disciplines, seeing them as parallel forces that shape progress and reflect the human experience. With a commitment to sustainability, compassion, and building capacity in others, Alexis channels her unique experiences and neurodiversity into her work, seeing them as sources of strength and insight. She embraces the challenges of both her academic and creative pursuits, often drawing inspiration from the Renaissance, which she views as a symbol of how art and science can evolve together. Through her poetry, Alexis explores her internal struggles, offering a raw and relatable perspective on life's complexities. Her words reflect a deep desire to connect with others, sharing her journey of resilience and self-discovery in hopes of inspiring those who may find themselves on similar paths.

Instagram: @alexischung4711



MY VOICE IS YOURS

By Christina WP

Mine is the voice that contradicts, 

That tells lies in the moments when doubt starts to hit. 

Cover your ears, try to be alone, 

A fine example of futility, 

My voice is your own.   

Mine is the hold that leads you to shake, 

That even in slumber will force you awake. 

Shrug me off, try to keep me away, 

My hold is your own and it’s here to stay.   

Mine is the purpose to fill you with fear, 

To skew your emotions and drive you to tears. 

Try to be brave, go ahead wipe your eyes, 

My purpose is yours and within you it lies.   

Mine is the opinion that you aren’t good enough, 

Not when you’re kind and not when you’re tough. 

Bat me away, tell me I’m wrong, 

My opinion is yours and has been all along.   

I am anxiety and I am in you, 

Maybe one day you’ll think my opinions untrue. 

Keep trying to fight me, keep taking your pills, 

Believe they’ll relieve you of all of your ills.   

I’ll always be here, 

For you are my home. 

Your voice is my voice, 

And mine is your own.

ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote 'My Voice is Yours' as writing therapy when my anxiety was at its worst. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that it was at its worst. I thought it would always be just as painful and crushing, and that I would never be able to calm its voice. Thankfully, I was wrong!"



GRIEF’S SYMPHONY

By Andrew Farrow 

Grief arrives unbidden, a tempest clawing at the soul’s moorings,

ripping through the quiet chambers of the heart,

tearing down every scaffolding of certainty.

The world shifts, light becomes heavy, shadows grow sharpened teeth,

and the voice inside splinters into a howl you do not recognise.

It speaks of loss, of the unbearable silence where love once sang,

of echoes too sharp to touch.

It crashes, like a wave too vast to resist, It tramples over you, it kneels upon you,

it violently shakes you, it hollows you out from inside

But Still, You Are Not, Can Not Be Defeated.

Within that guttural, alien voice, a whisper stirs, not of forgetting,

but of enduring, a flames flicker of calm in the chaos, the steady rhythm of a

heart that still beats.

Grief, for all its ferocity, cannot, will not hold you captive, you rise though trembling,

to gather the scattered shards.

Your hands, scarred but steady, reshape the pieces into a mosaic of

“what was” and “what will be.”

The voice softens, becomes your own again, It does not silence the pain,

but cradles it, gives it form and in doing so, grants you freedom.

Grief, relentless as it is, gives way to something quieter, a silent resolve that says:

“I have not been undone, I will walk forward, not unbroken, but whole in a way,

only those who have endured can understand.”

Hope does not shout, It whispers like the dawn, steady and patient, its calm hand in yours.

And though the storm lingers at the edges, you walk into a future

that awaits your healing, your resilience, your return to light.

In the distance, a beacon glows, unwavering, It pierces the haze,

guides your steps through the fog of sorrow.

Its radiance a quiet promise: “keep moving, there is still beauty ahead,

still joy to be found, still love to be shared.”

And so, you can follow, not blindly, but with a heart rekindled, the beacon does not erase

the past, but holds it tenderly, transforming pain into purpose, grief into growth.

It leads you forward, a steady companion on the long journey,

its light a vow that you will find your way,

and in time, yourself 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 disable 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.



UNTITLED

By Sian Rowlands

When you reach the other side and start to feel okay,

You tread forward slowly, scared you’ll fall over again.

Is this a triumphant win? Or is it a false start?

Don’t tell anyone, their sighs of relief might be too soon.

Creeping forwards, not daring to look back,

In case it’s right behind you, waiting to pounce.

It’s been a while, but the tension hasn’t gone,

Wondering when it could all go wrong.

One mistake, one false move and it’s over

Back into the pit, prison sentence unknown.

SENSITIVE

By Carrie Farrar

You informed me that I was too sensitive. A liability to a world hardened by its indifference. You informed me that I love too big, that my heart wasn't large enough to house all of my feelings. So I unraveled and poured out every shard of feeling, every pulse of vulnerability into the unyielding earth whose calloused heart would not receive. I let my edges soften, becoming less boundary, more passage. My hands, the architects of empathy. My words, a song for the silenced. You said that I was too much, so I became more. Not just feeling but understanding. Not just hurting, but healing. Not just breaking, but stubbornly, fiercely, becoming. And the world, all bone and sky, had no choice but to feel something, too.

ABOUT THE POEM: "This piece discusses me coming to terms with my high-functioning autism, using metaphor and symbolism to convey my journey of self-acceptance."

ABOUT CARRIE:  Carrie is a neurodivergent teacher and writer originally from Orange County, California. She has a bachelor’s in Child Development from California State University, Long Beach. In addition to this, she is currently studying Creative Writing at Saddleback College. After starting out as a preschool teacher, she embarked upon a career as a musician and preschool director. She has written prolifically since she was a young child and is currently working on her first book of poetry. In 2024, Carrie joined the poetry group Lyrical Flames, where she reads her poetry all over Los Angeles. She currently resides in Woodland Hills, and teaches music at St. John’s Preschool in El Segundo, California.



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