Solo launches, pre-launch drops, full poems, and announcements for traditional, solo, or indie publishing. Explore new works, behind-the-scenes updates, freebies, and more in the evolving world of Poeaxtry poetry.
Individuals who practice the art of setting healthy boundaries, setting boundaries regarding your reflection, readers seeking a sign to prioritize their peace, those souls navigating the friction between their internal truth and external societal views placed on them, and those advocates looking to understand the psychological weight of the “social mirror.”
The Vault:
The Social Mirror: Understanding that our self-image is often built from the reflections of the way others perceive us.
The Right to Exit: Recognizing that “agreeing to disagree” on someone’s identity is often a precursor to a necessary silence.
Identity Sovereignty: The power of defining oneself regardless of external “delusion” narratives.
The Weight of a Gaze:
In sociology, the “Looking Glass Self” suggests that we perceive ourselves through the eyes of others. But what happens when that mirror is cracked? When the person looking at us insists on seeing a version of us that doesn’t exist? it creates a psychological dissonance that is exhausting and potentially dangerous to maintain.
We are often told that we cannot “force” others to respect our gender identity or pronouns. This is very true, and I’ve never denied that.
Though, the other side of this argument is equally powerful: no one is forced to remain in a relationship (intimate, familiar, or platonic). This is especially true of relationships where the simple things being asked are dismissed or treated as a debate, or worse delusional.
Whether it’s a matter of gender identity or something else, walking away isn’t an overreaction; this was just another act of self-preservation.
If the image you hold of me is a distortion, I am under no obligation to stand in front of your mirror.
The Poem
An original poetic micro-prose by:
Axton N. O. Mitchell
“The Looking Glass Self”
The way we see someone
can shape the way they see themselves.
When the image we hold
doesn’t reflect who they truly are
or want to be,
it’s understandable
if they choose to walk away.
It is but this simple.
Poet’s Note:
This piece was born from the exhaustion of being told that my existence is a delusional belief, that others refuse to be forced to play-along-with. There is a common argument used against the trans and gender nonconforming individuals.
I dare you to try existing in a world that treats your core self as a debate topic. We still see this everywhere, though.
When we witness a neurodivergent person explaining their needs to be told that they are just “making excuses.” A woman in a high-level position who is treated like a secretary or as if she slept her way there based on a male coworker’s bias. Think of adults with differences in abilities that are stripped of their agency by people who refuse to see their competence.
If you view my identity, or anyone’s lived experience as a debate or a delusion, then there is no foundation for a relationship.
I’m not interested in debating with anyone about whether or not I exist, if my needs are real, or anything else involving my truth.
If you don’t respect who I am as a person, I don’t have to speak to you.
Period.
This isn’t an ultimatum; it’s a consequence of your own nearsightedness and self-righteousness.
The reality is more straightforward; Respect is the baseline for connection. If you view someone’s experiences as a delusion, your connection is already severed.
I don’t care to change your mind, and I certainly won’t spend my time trying to convince you of my right to be.
We don’t owe anyone our presence while they actively participate in our erasure.
The “Looking Glass Self” only has power if we choose to keep looking into the mirrors people hold up for us. If that mirror is warped, you have the right to shatter it.
True respect isn’t a favor someone does for you; it’s the bottom tier thing someone needs to do if they wish to remain in your world.
If they can’t do the bare minimum, you shouldn’t settle anyway.
TL;DR:
Perception is Power: Others’ views can influence us, but they don’t have to define us.
Universal Erasure: Identity denial happens to many from the neurodivergent to the disabled. The response is the same: cutting the tie.
Boundaries are Absolute: You do not owe a soul access to your presence while they actively participate in your erasure.
The Right to Silence: If respect isn’t present, communication is optional. Choose silence over self-betrayal.
Protective Empaths, those reclaiming boundaries or learning how to set them, best for deep-thinkers, slow scrollers, lovers of experimental poetry and visceral callouts.
THE PERSPECTIVE SHIFT:
There is a heavy, quiet exhaustion that comes with seeing every side of a story.
We are often told that empathy is a superpower, but we rarely talk about how it can feel like a haunting… draining even.
Imagine for a moment you possess the inability to not play devil’s advocate even when someone is actively setting out to dismantle you.
This is about that specific moment of clarity when you stop trying to wash the page clean and decide, finally, to let the ink set and stain.
POET’S NOTE – THE ORIGIN STORY:
This piece was forged from a chain of moments.
It started with a friend’s Facebook post
“As soon as I see someone's true colors I am no longer going to erase the canvas so they can do it again…. I'm gonna let it stain,…. So I'll remember…”
The post caught my interest while I was out hiking. The imagery followed me through the trails, and by the time I was driving home, it had fermented into something visceral.
LI recorded the first draft via voice-to-text while behind the wheel.
Unfiltered. Containing no punctuation.
Unfiltered.
Later, I moved into the visual editing phase, playing with the falling letters, word combination movements, and spacing to mimic the physical weight of the thoughts.
You’ll notice letters dropping vertically and words drifting; this is a visual dissection of how it feels to process these heavy realizations.
The ending shared “F” at the end between the words “for” and “forgiveness” represents that mental pivot point where an empath’s brain naturally tries to bridge the gap.
Ultimately, and much more importantly art is up to subjective interpretation.
Whatever these words trigger for you is valid, and I would love to hear what you saw in the stains or even in the forgiveness.
Do you disagree with the notion that forgiveness can be just as useful for self sabotage as many other vices.
The Poem
Forgiveness and the Stain;
I was cursed with an empathetic soul…
A
bles
s
i
n
g
in
disguise.
Plagued with the ability to,
see
more than one side
t
o any
story.
Even those
D
I
R
E
C
T
L
Y
opposing
the
N
A
R
R
A
T
I
V
E in my O
W
N.
Lord knows how many
people,
set out to destroy me.
Yet,
I allowed them to
walk
away…
unscathed.
Thinking
they
got one over on me.
Pulled the
wool E
over my
e
S.
Truth be told,
I simply saw how life could
bring
humankind outside our
humanity.
From now on when spilled ink
from others mars my
P
A
P
E
R,
I have to let it
stain
to
remember…
Or the empath in me will
always
push for
o
r
givness.
THE ARCHIVE:
To remember the stain is not to hold onto bitterness; it is to honor the truth of what happened.
When we refuse to scrub the paper, we acknowledge that our experiences… Yes, even the jagged, unfair ones, are part of the medium we work with.
It is a transition from being a victim of someone else’s mess to being the conscious archivist of your own life.
So What did the stain and forgiveness look like in your world?
Is it a lesson, a boundary, or a badge of honor?
I’d love to hear anything you’d like to share about your own interpretation of my lines.
Individuals who are fans of indieauthors and what they write.
Oh. No. What Did I Do?
Who actually writes for the comfort of the others. Writing the chaos in my head sharing trauma too heavy to carry alone.
I woke up before my alarm. Got up; Walked to the garage. I was intending to ease the tension gripping its claws in my skin with smoke, in my lungs. Outside the wind was howling louder than a banshee. It really felt as if both the house and I would both blow away for the second time this week.
Surprisingly, I made it inside the garage without blowing through the wind somehow. Taking my seat in front of my working altar. This is the place where I smoke, make all my physical store items, spells, rituals, readings, and more. I rolled up some green, lighting up within a few minutes.
Deciding to opened TikTok, went to my account page, intending on posting a draft. I scrolled through my twenty or so drafts. Choosing instantly, the video of Lake Erie’s waves crashing on beautiful Great Lake rocks.
The draft like most, I saved to post later and already formatted it. Meaningful visual editing is done how I’d like for the specific content. Usually it is:
Snipped and cut
Sound added
Stitched
Ready to use with and without text. This way, I can add relevant current text to some at any time over drafts.
I started writing in the text-overlay tool. IN THE TIKTOK APP LIKE A FERAL MAN. This is something I have never done. And honestly? I still can’t believe I just hit post. I did not read it back one time. I did not go back and do even first round editing. Which I pay no mind to that while I am in creative flow state.
Oh, and today is day 87 of my personal creative challenge. 100 poems in 100 days, creating habits and discipline. So, of course this poem will now hold that spot.
Rough Draft
So I know guys it’s just Lake Erie You say she’s dirty, basic, and nothing like the other Great Lakes But I already know she doesn’t let you see her, Like I do. She doesn’t call home to you. So tell me again why Tahoe in the west would make a better Great Lake than Erie…I mean she’s here with the rest but never mind that I find peace in the chaos she creates the inland salt-less seas Of midwestern USA would be a lot less beautiful without her So sleep on her, like you sleep on me.
Creative Flow
Creative flow is not some mystical, unreachable state. It is the rhythm of my work. Below are the most common times I find myself dropping into that zone. A bonus weird place that works for me every single time.
• While smoking: This is my primary ritual for shifting gears.
• The Drift: Right when I am about to fall asleep. If I do not get up and write it down right then, it is gone forever.
• In the wilderness: When the world is quiet enough to hear the thoughts I have been ignoring.
• The Weirdest One: Behind the wheel. I never hit this level of flow unless I am driving. I do the editing as a passenger, but the creation happens only when I am in control of the car.
The Creative Working Order:
“The creative process is a process of surrender, not control.” – Bruce Lee
This is the chronological order in which I write poetry. What is my cup of tea may not be yours. I want to mention I hate gatekeepers. Please feel free to borrow some if you find you like some of the herbs I layer within.
What is Creative Flow-
When I talk about flow, I am talking about the automatic, effortless, yet highly focused state of consciousness. This is described by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. This was his foundational work, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. Csikszentmihalyi, defined this as being so immersed in an activity. Time actually slips away and the egofades into the background.
“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.” –Maya Angelou
Tapping into My Flow:
When I am in flow, I do not care about perfecting the grammar, using stylized spacing, or worry about spelling. I do not experiment with word flow quite yet. I do not plan for my creative flow time when it comes to drafting new poetry. I just let it happen.
“My hand does the work and I don’t have to think. In fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. It’s like a dam in the brain that bursts.” –Edna O’Brien
It is more about getting the words down in the exact order they hit my brain. For me, this flow and editingseparation allows for streamlined creation. I can and have written at least 13 poems in a single session. This can occur during one elongated smoke sesh. It also happens over a long stretches on the road home after a day spent in the wild.
“Flow is being completely involved in an activity for its own sake. The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz.” –Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
Maintaining the Rhythm:
If you are looking to get out of a creative rut, the current 2026 standout creatives offer clear advice. Focus on a clear destination. Maintain discipline, and establish low-pressure rituals that work for you.
Many creative minds rely on daily rituals like “human-free time.” These rituals often ensure zero digital disruptions. While also including a consistent 5-10 minute anchor before beginning work. Breathing exercises can work to tell your nervous system it’s time to chill.
“Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” –Vincent Van Gogh
Creative flow also is referred to as “being in the zone,” by many. This is actually, not just a matter of luck. It’s a biological “accident” you can make yourself more apt to experience.
Conscious Release of Control the act of letting go.
Tips from the Professionals:
Author and journalist Steven Kotler and others aiming to continue the work of Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi point to several “pre-conditions” that must be met:
Challenge of Balance: Flow happens in a small sweet spot. Here the task is enough of a challenge to stretch your abilities. Just not to a point of inducing anxiety. Too easy, and you are bored; too hard, you are stressed.
Goals and Feedback: You must set an exact goal. They can be as simple as what you are trying to achieve in creating from one moment to the next. This gifts you a “compass” that prevents your mind from wandering.
Transient Hypofrontality: This is the neurological hallmark of flow where your inner critic named prefrontal cortex temporarily loses his voice. This leads to a loss of self-consciousness and a distorted sense of time.
“It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.” –Albert Einstein
Pause with me:
You have seen my process. You know about my garage, smoke filled lungs, and the wind. My brain shifts gears like an automatic transmission.
But I want to know how you handle your own creative rhythm?
Or maybe you’d rather share what you are doing out there in your own creative world. The successes and struggles. The in between trials.
Another idea if you feel like sharing, you could tell us about your weirdest flow state starter.
What is the one place, smell, thing, or ritual that always summons your focus? It does not have to work every single time, or make sense to you or to anyone else.
Whatever you chose to include mentioned above or from your own thoughts I appreciate it all your conversation and insight.
Talk is Cheap:
Actionable Ideas:
The 15-Minute Wall Stare:
Morning Pages Before Email:
Impose Weird Constraints:
Adopt an Alter Ego:
Protect Your Peak Hours:
Redefine Consistency:
Digital Switzerland:
Movement Over Optimization:
The Spark Journal:
Practice total destimulation. No screens, music, or podcasts. Staring at a blank surface for 15 minutes, seriously. This allows your brain to digest recent intake and fire up new, spontaneous connections.
Write three pages of longhand, raw thoughts before opening any digital app. This purges the mental clutter before the day’s stress claims your focus.
When freedom is paralyzing, force a constraint. Write exactly 100 words, rule out all words starting with a specific letter, or use a single, specific theme to kickstart your problem-solving
When stuck, step into a different identity. You could ask yourself things like , “What would my most fearless, creative self do right now?” This shift helps bypass old, self-sabotaging patterns.
Identify the specific time your brain is most alert and guard it like a vault. Do not squander this window on admin work or social media.
Consistency in 2026 isn’t about daily output. It’s about maintaining a lifelong relationship with your art. Even if that means touching base only once a week to keep the bond alive.
Designate a specific zone in your home where phones are strictly banned. Use this neutral territory as a sanctuary for your focus to recover
Arrive at your desk after a 10-minute walk without a phone or podcast. Physical space helps your brain transition better than sleep-walking straight into work.
Capture random ideas, quotes, or questions instantly in a physical notebook or notes app. Over time, these small sparks become a goldmine of raw material for future work.
Editing in Batches
Once the wildfire of the creativeflowstate is extinguished , I pause until I know that it’s time. Finally, I move into a different phase: the maintenance of the work. I do not attempt editing the text while the flow is live. That would risk wasting it.
Instead, I carve out specific blocks in my monthly schedules to act as the tumblrpolishing the stones. During these sessions I :
fix spelling
tighten grammar
adjust punctuation
refine the rhythm, add or minimize sentences, whatever it needs.
Poetry that asks for permission is polite way to saying nothing. Real poetry aims its punch at your gut leaving readers gasping for air, while searching for their next hit.
I tackle these in small batches, usually. A few times, I have spent hours on end doing deep-dive revisions. It depends on the pieces and their needs. Some poems only need a single pass to be considered finished. While others undergo several rounds of minor and major changes, until it feels right.
Once I am satisfied, I move these finalized versions into my themed personal portfoliodigital documents. This is a critical step, ensuring my work is not just scattered across drafts. It is archived, backed up multiple times, and ready for whatever is in the future for them individually.
Exploring Titles
Sleep on Me: This title is direct and defiant, I like that. It forces the reader to confront dismissiveness. Strengths: immediate punch; emotional weight. Weaknesses: may feel aggressive to some readers. Is that even a real weakness though? I didn’t think so.
The Midwestern Sea: This title grounds the poem in geography. Strengths: classic and descriptive. Weaknesses: lacks the personal emotional hook of the other options.
Chaos Finds Me: This highlights the internal creative experience. Strengths: invites curiosity; sounds mysterious. Weaknesses: may be perceived as too abstract or vague.
I chose “Sleep on Me” as the title. This is a direct, blunt, and maybe slightly aggressive challenge. That cleared the goal of perfectly mirroring the poem’s final punch.
“The Midwestern Sea” is cute and fitting. However, it is a bit too soft. “Chaos Finds Me” feels a too much like beating around the bush. It fails to convey the real experiences I wanted to express. “Sleep on Me” is almost visceral. It forces the reader to confront their own dismissiveness immediately. Thus, fully matching the tone of the piece rather than just describing the scenery.
It got what it needed fully; a title that doesn’t ask for permission. This demands attention, much like the poem itself, making the other two look like weak, observational captions in comparison.
First Round Editing
So, I know, guys. It is just Lake Erie.
You say she’s dirty, basic, and nothing like the other Great Lakes.
But I already know she doesn’t let you see her, like I do.
She doesn’t call home to you.
So, tell me again why Tahoe, in the west, would make a better Great Lake than Erie. I mean, she’s here with the rest, but never mind that.
I find peace in the chaos she creates. The inland, salt-less seas of the Midwestern USA would be a lot less beautiful without her.
So, sleep on her, like you sleep on me.
Changes and Explanations:
Punctuation:
I added the needed a few missing commas, periods, and whatever else I needed for word flow.
Spelling:
I fixed the one Great Lake typo. To ensure the reader understands and my meaning stays grounded in the subject.
Line Breaks:
I also added standardized line breaks which group the thoughts into coherent stanzas. Instead of the fragmented, rapid-fire lines of the initial draft.
Art is Subjective
The beauty of art is that it belongs to the viewer as much as the creator. When you read this, you might see a few different things depending on your view. You see a tribute to a lake, a reflection on a relationship, or an anthem for the misunderstood. That is one of my favorite parts of writing and a point I love to use. My intention is never to dictate how you should feel, because art is inherently subjective.
Poetry is the art of bleeding out in ink so you don’t bleed out on the people’s screens. With one goal making readers feel the same cauterized wounds you’ve been carrying all these years.
Axton N. O. Mitchell
However, I do layer my own truths into these lines. I wrote this to show that your love for a person is your own. Love anything is not bothered by what others think. It stands alone, regardless of their consensus. When people put you down or try to “yuck your yum,” they are projecting their own limitations. Their inability to see the value in what you love does not make your happiness any less real.
Polished Piece:
Sleep on Me-
So, I know, guys. It is just Lake Erie.
You call her dirty, basic, and nothing like the other Great Lakes.
But I already know she doesn’t let you see her, like I do.
She doesn’t call home to you.
Tell me again why Tahoe, in the west, makes a better Great Lake.
I mean, she is right here with the rest, but never mind.
I find peace in the unconventional. The peace in the chaos she creates finds me effortlessly.
Remember, she is just water to you.
To me, her inland, salt-less seas lining Midwestern shores would be far less beautiful without her.
So, sleep on her.
Just like you sleep on me.
Changes and Explanations:
Words:
I changed where I called her it all she/her references for thematic story. I removed certain elements to make the challenge more immediate and present. I then added the line. “I find peace in the unconventional” to emphasize that this is a choice of perspective.
Punchlines in Poetry:
The ending gut punch, by punchline. By changing So, sleep on her, like you sleep on me. To create a heavy, deliberate finality that forces the reader to stop then sit with the punchline. It become So, sleep on her. Just like you sleep on me.
It’s all decisions:
You have the pleasure of choosing-
Creating this post taught me something important. I often hold back my best work because I am waiting for the perfectedit or moment. The truth is, the real experience, born in a garage during a windstorm, pieces tend to be the most honest.
I separate the creative flow from the editing session. This allows me to create a way to honor both the chaotic spark and an editor’s discipline.
Please don’t forget art does not need to be polished to be valid. Your personal loves do not need to be justified. They do not need to be reciprocated by others to be worth protecting. Keep writing, keep creating, and most importantly, keep trusting your own voice.
If they do not get it, that is their loss, not yours.
Generational War Survivors, Anti-ImperialistCreativeRadicals, Veteran-Adjacent Advocates, Human-Rights Advocates, People who Want Peaceoverwar, and openminded US citizens sick of being lied to.
Their American Dream Our American Nightmare:
The “American Dream” often comes with a hidden price tag, one printed in a language of “liberation” but paid in the currency of humanlives. For those of us born into the shadow of the early 90s, the maps of the Middle East haven’t just been geography. They have been the backdrop of our entirelives. From the “slick” palms of the elite to the “golden sand” in the hair of the innocent, this pieceexplores the permanentstain left by decades of state-sponsoredtrauma. It is a look at the “lucrative lies” told to the youth and the “harmful heroism” that leaves our families broken while a billionaireclass counts the profit. Also this is my poem for day 78 out of 100StainedAmberSkin.
We didn’t just inherit a map of borders; we inherited a multiple decade long cycle of brokenbodies and exportedtrauma that the architects of these wars refuse to acknowledge
Stained Amber Skin
Amber drips, slick in the palms of few men;
Returning, hand to pocket, counting blood money.
Amber drips from their wallets;
Staining, all their pockets, eventually.
Tainting, their entirety, oil blood.
Unbothered the few men seem.
But brown and black bodies left in the wake
of the United States are worth more
than the resources you
“free them” for.
Freedom,
bringing bombs
culling
innocent
citizens
is not
democracy.
After, loved ones make it home .
Afghanistan.
Iraq.
Iran.
Golden sand sprinkling, Strands of disheveled, hair.
Arms that Do not Know how to move without being … armed, quite yet .
Stress etched into their core, muscle memory
Tainted amber, drips, staining the palms of few men, unable to hide their transgressions, even after their lifetime ends .
Sending the kids, barely grown, after trauma and death, often their own among potential losses… serving lucrative lies, harmful heroism, the goal your gain.
Poet’s Note
I was born in 1991, the year the world watched the skies over Baghdadlight up. My stepdad, the man who raised me, was a marine in operation “Desert Storm.” I grew up in the rippleeffects of that conflict. Just go to school one normal day and find myself in a fourth–gradereadingcircle when the worldshifted again on September 11th.
I watched the cycle reset. As I grew into an adult, it wasn’t my parents‘ generation going off to war. Now it was my friends. I watched them leave for Afghanistan and Iraq, and I watched them come back with “arms that do not know how to movewithout being armed.” Now, at 34, I am seeing the drums beat for Iran.
True democracy cannot be found in the wake of an airstrike under a guise of fighting for freedom. However, you can find it is buriedunder the lucrativelies that prioritize a billionaire’sbottom line over humansurvival.
I wrote this because I am sick of watching the same “few men,” you know the Cheneys and the big oil guys of the world treat brown and black bodies as collateral for their countriesresources. The “Amber” in this poem is the oil they crave and the bloodshed in for lies in their wars. Leaving a stain on their legacy that nohistorybook can washclean.
This is about the trauma and death as a service to the billionaireclass, and the disheveledhair of those left in the wake of a democracy that looks a lot like destruction.
The Debt That Outlives Us
We are living through a cycle of “white war” fought for a richelite who never have to stand in the droppingbombs, rainingbullets, or any thing resembling a warezone themselves. This poem is a rejection of the “harmfulheroism” used to recruit “barelygrown” kids into a machinedesigned for gain, not for people.
Key points to remember:
• The Stain is Permanent: The moral “transgressions” of those who profit from war follow them beyond their lifetimes.
• The Cost of “Freedom“: When “democracy” is delivered via bombs, it ceasesto be democracy and becomes a culling of the innocent.
• The Cycle of Violence: From pre 1991 to today, the playerschange, but the “lucrative lies” remain the same, leaving a trail of “muscle memory” trauma in our veterans and a “wake” of destructionabroad.
This isn’t just a poem; it’s a witnessstatement. We cannot keep “freeing” nations into extinction while our ownhomes are filled with the ghosts of the wars we’ve alreadyfought.
Join the Conversation
• How has the timeline of the last 30 plus years of conflictshaped your view of “heroism“?
• What are some creative ways we can support the “barely grown” youth to see through the “lucrative lies” of recruitment?
• In your own words, what does “democracy” look like when it isn’t tied to resources?
Drop a commentbelow and let’s dismantle these narrativestogether.
Share This Post
If this resonatedwith you, considersharing it with:
• Veterans and theirfamilies who understand the “muscle memory” of service.
• Historybuffs and activists who are tired of seeing the same names in the “billionaireclass” profiting from globalunrest.
• Creatives and poets who believe in usingart to callout the “few men” who think they are unbothered by the blood on theirhands.
Transgender people, gender nonconformists, mental health, growth, lovers of poetry, and creative writing readers.
Some transformations are visible, others happen quietly, beneath the us people see visually. Transition often requires a period of survival that looks like performance, a daily rehearsal of someone the world finds easy to accept.
This poem explores the space between those roles. It honors both the version of me that endured for years and the version that finally stepped forward into the light..
Poetry is the bridge between the survival we perform and the truth we finally speak.
Becoming the One Who Stayed
You would not have liked me
if you had met the woman I was
pretending to be.
Playing her part cost me a lot.
She wasn’t full of whimsy.
She didn’t know the
happiness I have found.
So how could she be full of positivity?
We spent a lot of time together, trying to
share our misery with anyone else,
until we knew it was time for her to
leave and for me to emerge,
changed.
Poet’s Note
This piece reflects the emotional distance between who I once had to present to the world and who I am now. Transition changed more than my gender marker, it changed the way I experience joy, community, and the possibility of being fully present in my own story. The person I used to perform was not false because she lacked meaning, she was necessary for survival. Letting her go was not an act of rejection. Simply put, it was an act of becoming.
Transitioning is not an erasure of the past; it is the radical act of claiming an authentic present.
My Truth
Transition did not simply alter how I am seen, it reshaped how I exist within my own life. It gave me permission to stop negotiating with survival and start building something steadier, something honest. The person I am now is not separate from who I was, but proof that endurance can become arrival.
Appalachian studies, residents of the Rust Belt, poetry enthusiasts, readers exploring regional identity, individuals interested in personal resilience, and mental health journeys.
Heritage, Endurance, And Beauty in a Poem
This original poem explores the intersection of Appalachian identity, the rugged history of the Rust Belt, and the personal resilience required to thrive in a landscape defined by industry and grit.
Appalachia is not merely a place we come from; it is woven into the very structure of our bones and memories.”
Through themes of heritage and endurance, this piece highlights the beauty often overlooked in the industrial corridors of the Midwest.
Pride & Grit
By Axton N.O. Mitchell
Year after year, I laced my trainers, preparing to outrun the river valley’s rusted villages.
Never noticing the erosion, the tributaries and creeks carved through my chemistry along my way.
Steel-dusted lungs, rust-caked memories. Running through these rolling-hills.
Appalachia doesn’t raise us, it’s welded to our skeletal systems.
Grit isn’t bought, but earned through life experience. You carry this with pride Like a tiger’s does his stripes.
Our personal gift from the Ohio River herself, should we see her beauty more clearly.
True grit is never purchased at a store; it is carved out of the hard terrain of lived experience.”
Appalachian Poetry
The history of the Rust Belt is etched into our daily lives, but it is the quiet strength of our people that defines our true landscape. As we continue to navigate these changing valleys, let us hold onto the grit that shaped us. Thank you for walking through this reflection on heritage and resilience with me.
Individuals navigating grief, dead parents club members, seekers of healing poetry, people exploring mother-child dynamics, poetry lovers, and fans of emotional, poetry.
Grief and Parent-Loss
Grief does not follow a linear path, and sometimes, the most profound healing comes from the unexpected hands of those who step into our lives after a tragedy. This piece is a reflection on the mothers, both biological and chosen, who offered support when I needed it most.
They didn’t try to replace her. They simply made sure I didn’t have to walk the path alone.
Thanks to You
Losing my mom was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced.
I owe a huge thank you to a select few mothers who stepped up in my time of need.
Women who have: kept me laughing, made sure I was okay, showed me glimpses of my mother.
Most importantly, women who were there for me.
Immensely Grateful
To the mothers who still show up: thank you.
Your presence is a testament to the fact that even in the face of immense loss, we are never truly walking alone. If this reflection resonates with your own journey, please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments or subscribe to join this space for more poems on resilience and healing.
When the silence of loss became too loud, these women became the music that brought me back to myself
Poetry lovers, writers seeking inspiration, grief processing, creative journaling enthusiasts, and followers of concise poetic forms.
In the fast-paced digital age, sometimes the most profound emotions are captured in the fewest words.
Sometimes the most profound emotions are captured in the fewest words.
Recently, I encountered a creative challenge on Instagram that pushed me to distill a moment of intense feeling into twenty words or less. The prompt asked for three specific words: “breathe,” “quiet,” and “warmth.” What emerged was a brief, haunting exploration of loss and the lingering memory of intimacy.
Prompt, breathe quiet warmth
“Your Warmth”
I wish you had
thought to
breathe your quiet
warmth inside of me,
one last time.
Before you said
goodbye.
Poet’s Note & Challenge
I wrote this poem after an account on Instagram posted the challenge. We were instructed to use “breath,” “quiet,” and “warmth” in a poem. This poem should be 20 words or less. Now I’m challenging you to do the same.
This exercise serves as a powerful reminder that our creative voices do not always need expansive canvases. Sometimes, a tiny spark is enough to ignite a deeper conversation about healing, grief, and the ways we hold onto the people we have lost.
I found the words for this at the center of the grief of the loss of my mother. I write a lot from the emotions and loneliness I find there. I’m hoping other people who have lost their parents or loved one too can find solace here.
The constraint of brevity forced me to strip away the unnecessary, leaving only the raw ache of a final departure.”
Before you go
I am now passing this challenge on to you. Can you capture a complex emotion using only “breathe,” “quiet,” and “warmth” within a twenty-word limit?
Writing in constrained forms is a brilliant way to sharpen your focus and unlock new creative paths. I look forward to seeing how you interpret these elements in your own work.
Please share your responses in the comments, tag me on social media, or email them to poeaxtry@gmail.com. Let’s see what we can create together.
Ultimately, this space is built on the belief that our stories gain strength when they are shared. Whether your poem is a whisper of grief or a shout of joy, it belongs here.
Thank you for taking this moment to breathe, reflect, and create with me. I cannot wait to see how this space grows.
No gatekeeping, no hoop jumping, just honest work, real people, unfiltered language, and rough-edged art. Submit to the next Poeaxtry Prism issue by form or email Poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com
Below is a photo I took on my Haunted Tunnel hike this week. This is the sole inspiration I used to create the above poem. “Yearning Memory” was created for day 47 of 100 poems in 100 days.
