I was today years old when i realised
that if your heart were to shatter
mine would too
i think my heart is constructed from the little pieces that i take
from the people who mean the most to me
for example, in the right top corner
you can hear the notes of your laughter as we dance around you
and just below that, you'll see the way your face brightened as you talked about something stupid
these feelings that make up my heart are
laid messily atop one another
with your happiness the mortar in-between
and i think
if tears were to roll off your face
onto my heart
they would dissolve that mortar,
weaken the structure just a little
until it shatters
into tiny pieces,
like rubies in the sunlight,
glinting crimson and warm
hearts can be patched together
a steady hand, some glue and
a whole load of patience
that's what i'm here for right?
Mental health is different.
It holds different thoughts, different values, different insecurities.
In some it is the manifestation of not being pretty or smart
The feeling of being alone or unable to say,
For medical students, it is the trauma we see in the hospital
The problems we hear
The conditions we learn about
It is the recognition of symptoms, the knowing of the unknown
It is the pressure of exams, the pressure of constant competition with those you love, hate and.
It is the comparison of z values and centiles, ranks and scores
It is the absence of,
“hey, how are you today?”
(n) A feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease about something with an uncertain outcome
Worry, nervousness, unease
But in reality?
Anxiety settles in the fissures of your mind
Squats in the darkest recesses
And laughs at you,
Asks questions like,
Was I good enough?
Am I good enough?
Will I be good enough?
The body is a series of puzzles put together to make one big puzzle.
The ***** systems.
Puzzles within puzzles.
Mental health takes those puzzles
Lays them upon a flat surface
And swings its hammer in a wide arc
To Shatter those puzzles,
Break up the tiny, interlocked pieces,
And scatter them across the plane of your soul.
She loved art,
more so when she’s using red
Bright- filled with joie de vivre.
Dark- deep and sophisticated.
Soon her colour pencils will get blunt,
if not already broken
She reaches over to her drawer
full of sharpeners,
all either bladeless or with rusty metals
She takes a brand new one out of its packaging
and admired its beauty,
Its lustrous metal gleam
She unscrews it and began drawing red
on her pale, see-through canvas
The metal cold on her blue veins
unlike the warm red, now in a crimson shade.
Stick out your tongue
the moment a poet
falls in love with you
is the moment
f o r e v e r