Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

I’m Not Living

By Shayna Anderson


Friendship is fleeting

Love tugs at my clothes –

Will not let me fall,

Will not let me dive.

I’m not living

But they won’t let me die.


Shayna Anderson is a writer and artist who lives in the USA. She is at times happy, at times depressed, and at other times, violently suicidal. She cherishes every moment of sanity she has, and hopes never to give in to the darkest recesses of her mind.



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By Ly Kerr

i’m waging a war
with myself.

there are ceasefires,
but i am currently fighting a battle on two fronts.
there are bound to be casualties.

part of me knows it is time to quit.
i can’t hold this front forever.
it is not possible to make him love me
equally,i can’t make myself stop loving him.
it’s painful to look at someone & see a future i can’t have.

half of me is ready to wave my white flag
the other half is prepared to dig in.

and there is the ongoing, dirty squirmish.
emotions lined up on each side of the barricades.
guilt & pain ready to face fear & sadness.
there is no victor.
i lose everytime.

Ly is a 29-year-old woman who has been battling self-harm and depression for 10 years.
She is an aspiring writer with a B.A. (Hons.) in English & History.
She is an animal rights activist and supporter of mental health awareness.
She has an undefinable relationship with an undefinable man.

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By Catherine Gourd

Click is how it happens,
Click is how it goes,
My frontal brain it deadens,
My primal brain’s in throes.

I am all emotion,
No rationality,
I can’t go through motions
And fake normality

My pain is at its limit,
My being is my pain
And though I may forbid it
I know it’s all in vain.

My suffering is immense
I see no end to it
My body is too tense
On fire is my spirit.

I think of my own passing,
Of my pain being less
I cry and I am screaming
Enthralled in my own madness.

Click is how it happens,
Click is how it goes,
My frontal brain it deadens,
My primal brain’s in throes.

Although Catherine has been labeled by her diagnoses, and was once ashamed of them, she is not anymore. She has accepted that she suffers from mental illness. She has anxiety, depression, and a mixed personality disorder – a mix of borderline personality disorder and dependent personality disorder. Catherine is now 30 years old, and the one unifying thread in her life, besides mental illness, is hope. In her mind, she is a survivor, she is strong, and she believes that there is always hope.

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By Jodi Kluchar


Unyielding Solitude.

It cuts at my being like a knife…

A demon clawing my flesh.

Might this fiend leave me alone?


I chose this Solitude,

This demon is my only friend.

Hollow as this union may be,

It is all I know,

I cling to it.

I will not let it go.

After all,

Don’t I deserve the torture?

Who am I to think I am entitled to anything better?

Agony, Pain, Emptiness, and Depression are my sisters.

They are my family,

We are joined together in Blood,

Precious Blood.

No matter how hard I try to disown them,

They always come back.

But, how hard do I try?

If they were gone,

Then I would be utterly alone.

That, I could not bear.

Jodi Kluchar lives in Ohio with her son and daughter. After the birth of her son, she experienced nightmares and flashbacks of his emergency cesarean delivery, but didn’t tell anyone. She was extremely depressed and suicidal for about a year. When she found out she was pregnant with her daughter, she began to have panic attacks and became very suicidal. That was when she finally sought help. Jodi has been on medications and in counseling ever since. Although she doesn’t feel like she will ever be completely ‘cured’, she tries to live in the moment. Now, when she peers into the looking glass, she likes what she sees.

Jodi runs a website for women who have had traumatic birth experiences and suffer from PTSD as a result. Visit: http://www.ptsdafterchildbirth.org for information and support.

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By Sharon M. Young-Maliszewski

You stand alone or so you think

Never with another at your side

The tears fall with every blink

Wondering why it is you

Reaching out to one that will listen

Never realizing they truly understand

Bearing your soul with every word

Slowly, the hand reaches out

You are never alone

As I stand with you

Sharon has suffered from clinical depression in the past, though she is healthy today. She lost her youngest brother, Dennis, to suicide on 16 June 2001. He suffered from depression and tried to end his life many times. He always called Sharon when he was suicidal, but the night he completed his suicide was the first time in 13 years that he did not. Sharon knows inside that his suffering is over and he is safe. She feels that education is the key to beating the stigma associated with mental illness, and that we have to share our stories so we can help others.

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By Lakisha Armstrong

Depression is a universe

With no escape

No sun, no moon, no stars

Clouds pregnant with tear drops

I feel them closing in

Closing my eyes, I cross my arms

Across my chest

And fall back on my bed of nails

Lakisha Armstrong (not her real name) is a poet from Long Island. She suffers from clinical depression and anxiety disorders. She’s unsure of whether her poems are any good; what she is sure of is that they provide her immense relief.

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Sylvia Plath was born in the 1930s, and enjoyed much success as a poet from a very young age. However, she has been said to have suffered from depression, anxiety disorders, and possibly even bipolar disorder. She was hospitalized for a ‘nervous breakdown’ (a suicide attempt) and was given shock therapy. However, this did little to help her.

At the age of 33, Sylvia Plath committed suicide by sticking her head in a gas oven. She first sealed the kitchen off with wet towels so that her sleeping children would not be affected by the gas. She was found by her au pair with her head in the oven.

In the following – rather graphic – poem, she talks about the beauty of pain. Could she have been a cutter?


By Sylvia Plath

For Susan O’Neill Roe

What a thrill —
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of a hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian’s axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz.

A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Kamikaze man —

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Darkens and tarnishes and when

The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump —
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

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