Long Mentalhealth Poems
Long Mentalhealth Poems. Below are the most popular long Mentalhealth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mentalhealth poems by poem length and keyword.
Stressed, he asks, yes
I am, knowing that you are the one have me in a mess
How can I be your significant other when you make me feel insignificant than your lover
Significant other? What does it mean?
It's says it's a person who is important to someone's well being
It can also refer to someone with whom someone has a romantic or sexual relationship that is likely to last longer
But with each passing day you leave me astray making our love not much stronger
If you really didn't want to be with me and I'm such a terrible person
Then maybe it's the reason I'm in my head cursin' thinking that one day I'll be rehearsin' my vows, my devotion
I thought I had it set in motion
But in reality, your reality, I'm just your insignificant other
The whole time I've been sitting here thinking that I was your significant other
they say boys don't cry,
so he bleeds instead.
silent screams hidden
under hoodie threads.
he skips meals
like skipping pages
in a book that no one wants to read-
his ribs start spelling out
"notice me"
but no one speaks that language.
"you're a boy, tough it out,"
they said
when his voice shook like glass$and his hands begged for
anything
but silence.
so he carved the words
he couldn't say
into skin that never asked
to be a canvas.
they see the hoodie,
not the harm
they see the smile,
not the storm.
he hears
"girls have it rough,
you wouldn't understand,"
and swallow another truth
like it's poison wrapped in
a plastic fork
and a lie that boys are born invincible.
he's drowning
in a sea of
"man up"
"get over it"
"stop being dramatic"
but his lungs
never learned how to breathe
in a world where being okey
is the only option for boys.
they don't see him.
not really.
not when he whispers
"i'm not okey"
and they laugh
thinking it's a joke.
but this isn't a punchline
this is a lifeline.
unraveling.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see
a boy
not broken-
but breaking.
I dived into the cauldron of magic potion and transformed into the person who I was.ME !
The Me that was missing pieces that felt so deeply about things.
The Me that had that innocence of a child ,who looked at everything in life with amazement and marveled at the wonders of life.
The Me who lived with the Magic that life is to be savored and lived for each moment.
The ME who appreciated the little things in life and believed that the world is a beautiful place full of wonders and so much possibilities.
Before I dived into that Magic potion I was in a dark place.
I felt dead inside ,the Magic was gone
It seize to exist. My heart stopped beating
I was numb,I could feel anymore
I dived into the cauldron of magic potion to be "Reborn"
To become Me
I don’t like cake, nor cupcakes.
I’ll eat it, but if it’s my only option.
I always kind of wondered why I don’t like it; I thought I was maybe just too picky.
Despite not liking it, I’ve baked many;
Each covered in icing, and the occasional sprinkles.
I’ve tasted every single one I’ve made over the years, slowly growing to resent it.
Maybe it’s because of excessive birthdays, or maybe because it’s just not a special treat anymore.
My father and I would bake together,
Always excited to mix together the ingredients, putting on my tinkerbell apron.
I look back at the many photos compiled of myself baking, always just me. Alone. Were we really spending time together? Bonding?
I don’t remember my father being around while I whisked away, just the moment captured in a picture.
In the shadows of our nation's promise,
Some stand waiting, papers clutched in hand,
While others cross where fences compromise,
And find a different welcome in this land.
I've seen the tired faces at food banks,
Veterans who fought beneath our flag,
The elderly with medicine too dear,
And families whose futures start to sag.
Not hatred for the stranger seeking hope,
But questions for a system out of tune,
That sometimes seems to overlook its own,
While others find their answers coming soon.
What justice means depends on where you stand—
The view looks different from the bottom rung.
When helping hands seem always out of reach,
It's hard to hear the songs of freedom sung.
A nation built on dreams must dream for all,
Not choose between its children and its guests.
The scales of fairness falter and they tilt
For corruption is the system democracy has built.
Perhaps one day we'll build a better way,
Where no one stands forgotten in the cold,
Where policy embraces every soul.
Until that day, the tensions pull us tight,
Two different truths, both painful and sincere
The struggle of belonging and of need,
Just another myth of the so called American
Dream, putting many to sleep.
Desire turns to ire,
elation to vexation
Every single thing you do
Increases my frustration
Light shines through the colourful stained glass
It’s a sight to see such fine art
But the only glass I see stained are shards of red that you stabbed into my heart
Keep your head down
For your sins, you can’t repay
You will never be forgiven
On your knees where you shall stay
Staggering breaths
As you begin to falter
Trying to confess
all of your sins at the altar
You are no Angel
Nor are you a saint
One does not receive glory
for bragging of his attaint
Your time has come
for I hear the chime of the bells
Your lack of repent
shall send you to hell
I used to think poems lived in leather-bound books,
guarded by professors with stern looks,
that words worth speaking needed permission,
academic citations, scholarly submission.
I sat in corners swallowing syllables,
choking on metaphors I couldn't pronounce,
wondering why my tongue tied itself in knots
while others spoke verses smooth as river stones.
The first time I wrote something real,
my hands shook like autumn leaves.
I called it a draft, a sketch, a maybe-someday thing—
anything but a poem, because poems were precious things
and who was I to claim that word?
Three crumpled notebooks later,
I stood at an open mic, palms sweating,
heart drumming rhythms louder than my voice could ever be.
The room was half-empty, the lights too bright,
my paper creased from being folded, unfolded, refolded again.
And I spoke.
The silence after I finished
was the first punctuation mark I truly understood.
See, finding your voice isn't about sounding good.
It's about sounding like you.
It's the moment you stop apologizing for your own echo,
stop trying to fit your breath into someone else's lungs.
I still don't know if what I do is poetry.
Some days I think it's just survival with better line breaks,
confession without the curtain,
the things I couldn't say finding their way out anyway.
But I know this:
When I speak now, I recognize the sound.
When I write, the words fit my mouth
like they've been waiting there all along.
And maybe that's enough.
Maybe that's everything.
Maybe poetry isn't something you find.
Maybe poetry is what finds you
when you finally stop running from your own voice.
He counted crumbs like guilty prayers,
bones beneath his skin like snares.
His stomach twisted, night and day,
but all he ever said was “I’m okay.”
In crowded halls he walked alone,
his silence louder than a phone.
A smile he painted, thin and weak,
his voice a whisper he couldn’t speak.
He hid his heart in shades of gray,
afraid of what the world would say.
A boy who loved but couldn’t tell,
trapped inside his private hell.
He dreamt of friends, of someone near,
but walls grew thicker year by year.
IBS burned, his body frail,
an unseen war he could not hail.
At night he stared at ceilings high,
and wondered softly if he’d die.
He wrote in notebooks, line by line,
“I’m still a person. Please see my sign.”
But no one came, no voices called,
his messages like leaves that fall.
The weight he carried, sharp and deep,
grew heavier each time he’d sleep.
One evening, shadows filled his room,
his heart beat slow with growing gloom.
A note half-written, ink still wet,
words of pain and deep regret.
Then—silence. Curtains drawn.
A life, a boy, forever gone.
No one saw the final part,
they only found his note, his heart.
And now his name is spoken low,
an empty desk, a face they know.
A story told so others learn:
see the signs before they burn.
Don’t let another fade away,
reach for them before that day.
A boy is more than pain or shame,
a life is more than just a name.
To play a guitar is one thing I always yearned
On a day like any other I finally decided to learn.
My Son's Guitar is made for a child, small in stature.
I strum the strings, an out of tune melody is what my ears capture.
Last time I tried I quit, knowing the challenge of acquiring a new skill.
So I download an app, now in tune it's ready and that's how I feel.
An acoustic guitar can make wonderful music, in the right hands.
My fingers are clumsy, like a man lost in unfamiliar land.
Starting from the beginning I learn about the instrument.
The strings, frets, how to tune and I'm lost in the moment.
Electric energy flows from me, happy and excited.
I'm playing riffs and melodies, I know my dad would be proud I finally tried it.
I'm close to 40 years old but I feel a youthful joy playing music.
Dad has been gone 25 years, so I learn a song for him that's nostalgic.
So amped I am I send a song to my brother.
"Nothing else matter's" resonates the air, still new and fresh I play a rookie cover.
He gives encouraging words and tells me to keep it up.
So I play on with a thirst for more as I try to fill my musical cup.
Chords, notes and practice have been a test of concentration.
I learn "wonderful tonight" for my honey and I'm filled with elation.
My Son's Guitar has blessed me in a time of hardship and I'm so glad.
I hope one day my Son will play and think of me, like how I thought of my Dad. ????
-Love you Dad and my dear Son
I look down now
And I can just barely see
The thin, pale white lines
From the girl I used to be
The girl who’s not so far gone
Not as dead as you think
But instead of watching skin bleed
She now just puts it in ink
As the clock ticked faster
The calendar pages flipped
More and more time passed
And the scars started to slip
You hear that she’s clean
She has been for years
6 months, one year, two?
If only it were that clear.
If only she could say she’s better
And no urge lingers in her head
It’s a part of her now, she won’t escape it
At least, not until she’s dead.
She’ll spend her whole life chasing
That high that she once knew
And because she can’t do it herself
There’s no danger she won’t pursue.
She’d climb the tallest mountains
With little fear of fall
Because if she took a plunder
She’d be at peace, after all.
To her, it doesn’t count
Grabbing lamps and hot glue
Burning isn't cutting
It’s an accident, too.
She yelps and she complains
Griping about the burn
When really what it feels like
Is a quick, quiet return.
Every now and then
Her skin feels an itch
A jittery, gaping feeling
Longing to be stitched.
She’ll resist it best she can
Deny it till it’s true
But still, she’ll never cease to long
For the feeling she always knew.