Mentalhealth Poems

4:09:05

4:09:05
A familiar time which plays on repeat in my mind
Get the opposite of high, but I don’t know why
Cutting pounds but not just my weight
I’m not trying to over-exaggerate
But I think it’s time to say goodbye.

Being alone isn’t the same as feeling it
I just wanna stop, I just wanna quit

They say all it takes is

Destruction is a form of creation

Some say destruction is a form of creation.
But what did I create while destroying my body?
What was created while I was chipping away at my skin, slice by slice?

It's not until you step back and stop the destruction
that you realize you created resilience.

Even though the destructive thoughts
souround your essence in a thick fog of darkness,
hellbent

My son's guitar

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

Rebirth of the Soul

When the mind faltered

Alternate timelines were born

Lines of realities blurred

Rifts of possibilities torn



Truth fading into the abyss

Chained to the unknown

Silently waiting for life's kiss

To shatter this stone cold throne



Provoking thy swarming thoughts

Clawing and scratching for the one

Blinded by hopes deemed naught

Until one's dreams are none



Walls shaking and quaking

Slashing and ripping

Sharpening newfound wings

Clutches of chaos beating


Sealing

If I Were a Girl, Would You Listen?

He doesn't cry in public-
he's learned to bleed where no one looks.
Where bathroom tiles keep secrets
and mirrors lie
just enough
to keep him standing.

he skips lunch again.
just not hungry, he says
but the hunger is real-
not for food
for someone
to notice.
for silence.

his sleeves stay long,
even in summer.
skin whispering stories
that no one ever asks to hear.

because boys?
boys don't break
boys don't

This Is Still Pain

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

The boy who wasn’t picked

He sits in the back.
Not because he wants to—
but because he’s tired
of being picked last
when he dares to show up at all.

You don’t see him.
Not really.
He’s there, though—
in the bathroom stall during lunch,
because his gut’s staging a protest.
IBS, the silent screamer,
writhing beneath his ribs
like worms made of fire.

They say, “It’s probably just nerves.”
As if nerves

my rapist's follow request on facebook

ping!
like pavlov's dog,
i glance 
quick
at my phone
new facebook follow request.
i click the account
click!
my rapist. 
it's been nearly 14 years since the first the time
he laid his hands on me
but i feel them
like it was this morning.
ping!
his son
liked my post on Instagram 
,
are they working together?
are they a team again?
father and son,
teacher and apprentice,
master of none
but

father's day

Zero. 
I imagine you watched,
With awe and wonder
At the image on the screen,
My movements 
In black and white,
As the sonographer moved the wand,
Up and down
The belly of my mother,
Showing you 
Mystery and excitement,
The next chapter 
Of your lives.

One.
You gave me ice cream
When you
Definitely
Were
Not
Supposed
To,
And I think a bond formed.
Mischief by mouthfuls,
We were already unstoppable.

Two, Three, Four.
Toddler

The Forgotten

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

Never Forget

I will never forget the first time I lost someone to suicide.
The deafening screams that I created,
The shock, 
Followed by the aftershock.

I will never forget you Matthew, 
I won't let myself
forget you.

As to forget is to accept,
And if I accept your death,
I’m afraid of how the system we fought for so long will continue to

Echoes in the quiet

They say the world is full of voices,
But mine gets lost among the sound.
A whisper drowned by louder choices,
A silence no one seems to hound.

I walked through halls of hollow laughter,
Their eyes slid past like I was air.
I smiled, and moments later, after,
They left—and I was still not there.

My name, a note they never mention,
My

Finding Poetry’s Voice

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

Reflections of the Past, Visions of the Future

I celebrated my father's birthday this last April 4th, 2025
He would have been 75,
Yet 7 years ago, a white butterfly laid him to rest, with the rest of his family around his casket,
And my face playing masquerade among the living corpses giving me their condolences,
Not of any fault of their own,
Just that, my own brokenness

The Girl I Used To Be

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

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