Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Category: poetry

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  • Hitting Creative Flow: Writing Real Poetry- A Deep-Dive

    Hitting Creative Flow: Writing Real Poetry- A Deep-Dive

    Best For:

    • Poets and Prose Composers
    • Creative deep-dive readers
    • Creatives stuck in creative brain rot
    • Individuals who are fans of indie authors and what they write.

    Oh. No. What Did I Do?

    small ways on the shore of lake erie roll in with blue cloudy skies


    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

    upclose of rocks, bubles in waves and water at lake erie

    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 ego fades 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 editing separation 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.

    The Drexel University Creative Research Lab states creative flow requires two things:

    • Extensive Domain Expertise or simply put practice
    • Conscious Release of Control the act of letting go.
    blue skies, clouds, beach sands and pebbles, and small waves on lake erie

    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 creative flow state 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 tumblr polishing the stones. During these sessions I :

    • fix spelling
    • tighten grammar
    • adjust punctuation
    • refine the rhythm, add or minimize sentences, whatever it needs.
    rocks line the ground and a water fall trickles in the center on lake eries shore

    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 portfolio digital 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.

    down dree trunk, winter leaf bare trees, blue skies, lake erie shore

    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.

    lake erie rocky shore, blue cloudy skies, waves just coming in

    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 perfect edit 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.

  • The Cost of “Amber”: a Poem the Blood and Oil Cycle

    The Cost of “Amber”: a Poem the Blood and Oil Cycle

    Best For:

    Generational War Survivors, Anti-Imperialist Creative Radicals, Veteran-Adjacent Advocates, Human-Rights Advocates, People who Want Peace over war, 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 human lives. 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 entire lives. From the “slick” palms of the elite to the “golden sand” in the hair of the innocent, this piece explores the permanent stain left by decades of state-sponsored trauma. It is a look at the “lucrative lies” told to the youth and the “harmful heroism” that leaves our families broken while a billionaire class counts the profit. Also this is my poem for day 78 out of 100 Stained Amber Skin.

    We didn’t just inherit a map of borders; we inherited a multiple decade long cycle of broken bodies and exported trauma 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 Baghdad light up. My stepdad, the man who raised me, was a marine in operation “Desert Storm.” I grew up in the ripple effects of that conflict. Just go to school one normal day and find myself in a fourth–grade reading circle when the world shifted 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 move without 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 buried under the lucrative lies that prioritize a billionaire’s bottom line over human survival.

    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 countries resources. The “Amber” in this poem is the oil they crave and the blood shed in for lies in their wars. Leaving a stain on their legacy that no history book can wash clean.

    This is about the trauma and death as a service to the billionaire class, and the disheveled hair 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 rich elite who never have to stand in the dropping bombs, raining bullets, or any thing resembling a ware zone themselves. This poem is a rejection of the “harmful heroism” used to recruit “barely grown” kids into a machine designed 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 ceases to be democracy and becomes a culling of the innocent.

    • The Cycle of Violence: From pre 1991 to today, the players change, but the “lucrative lies” remain the same, leaving a trail of “muscle memory” trauma in our veterans and a “wake” of destruction abroad.

    This isn’t just a poem; it’s a witness statement. We cannot keep “freeing” nations into extinction while our own homes are filled with the ghosts of the wars we’ve already fought.

    Join the Conversation

    • How has the timeline of the last 30 plus years of conflict shaped 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 comment below and let’s dismantle these narratives together.

    Share This Post

    If this resonated with you, consider sharing it with:

    • Veterans and their families who understand the “muscle memory” of service.

    • History buffs and activists who are tired of seeing the same names in the “billionaire class” profiting from global unrest.

    • Creatives and poets who believe in using art to call out the “few men” who think they are unbothered by the blood on their hands.

  • Becoming the One Who Stayed: a Poem on Transition

    Becoming the One Who Stayed: a Poem on Transition

    Best for:

    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.

    Internal Links

    A different poem a different day

    Transgender Focused Legislation Outlook

  • The Rust Belts Beauty: Pride & Grit a Poem

    The Rust Belts Beauty: Pride & Grit a Poem

    Best For:

    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.

    Another day. Ogelbay.

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    Support it, below. 👇

    Buy me a coffee?

  • A Poem of Thanks to the Mothers that Came After Mine

    A Poem of Thanks to the Mothers that Came After Mine

    Best For:

    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

    Internal Links

    A Letter I’ll Never Send to my Dad

    A poem about the longest day without my mom.

  • Breathe, Quiet, Warmth: A Twenty-Word Prompt Challenge

    Breathe, Quiet, Warmth: A Twenty-Word Prompt Challenge

    Best For:

    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.

    A poem– of thanks to the mothers who stepped up

    A Journal– for hikers who need to reflect

  • Axton Mitchell’s Original Poem: In the Lord’s Name

    Axton Mitchell’s Original Poem: In the Lord’s Name

    In the Lord’s Name

    Some humans

    are

    impossible 

    to tame  

    The devil always did his best work

    In

    God’s

    name.

    They don’t even hide in shame.

    Catholic crusades,

    genocide,

    slave trades,

    infanticide,

    cannibalism,

    pedophilia,

    and more, all done in

    the name of the Lord.

    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

  • An Original Poem of Yearning and Memory by Axton Mitchell

    An Original Poem of Yearning and Memory by Axton Mitchell

    Yearning Memory

    What a blessing it is

    to yearn for your own

    memories.

    Maybe it’s a curse

    I seem to have forgotten

    the words; you see my lines get all

    jumbled up in my mind’s eye

    before escaping through my

    closed teeth,

    struggling to

    keep them in.

    I gaslight myself so much;

    I almost wonder if I started this fire.

    I’m feeling weak,

    week

    by week…

    I’m feeling more weak.

    Someone keeps feeding the flames,

    controlling them,

    no longer feasible

    to me.

    I

    choke on the smoke

    no longer.

    When the blaze continues,

    they will know it was not me

    who lit the inferno.

    A Note from the Poet:

    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.

    Graffiti from inside Moonville Tunnel
  • Day 30 of 100 a Poem about Standing Your Ground

    Day 30 of 100 a Poem about Standing Your Ground

    Protesting in Quotes

    “They will kill me if you let them take me”

    “Stop taking pictures and save my life now!” 

    “Help me!”

    “I am going home” 

    The time to wake up America

    Has come and past 

    we all live in fear 

    The time of finding out has come now. 

    Videotaping government agents murdering our sisters and brothers in the streets only to show outrage when they are white like you? 

    You should have cared when they were all black or brown. 

    Stand your fucking ground!

    A Small Update From the Author

    I’m still writing every single day. So, the challenge continues, but I won’t be posting each poem publicly from here on out. Some pieces need time to breathe, some are for future collections, and some belong to quieter places inside me.

    You’ll still see selected poems along the way… just not all of them in real time. Thank you for walking this stretch of the road with me.

    A Different Day

  • Two Poems for 100 Poems in 100 Days by Axton Mitchell

    Two Poems for 100 Poems in 100 Days by Axton Mitchell

    Ice Storms

    Written 1/17/2026 Day 27 of 100 –

    Immigration detainees know nothing

    Of the snow beyond their cells.

    They know of deadly ice storms

    within the

    borders of

    America the great, though.

    A dream we once sold,

    told everyone they could reach.

    “I’m not mad at you.”

    “I can’t breathe.”

    “Mom.”

    To point a gun in their face,

    The moment they start

    to look less white.

    Milk

    written 1/18/2026- Day 28 of 100

    We all know the father

    who somehow got lost,

    on the way to the store,

    never to return.

    Sadly, I wish the same could be said

    for mine.

    Went for the milk,

    never came back.

    But in fact,

    he did return,

    after my mom

    filed for divorce.

    He returned to

    hold me up on his shoulders

    at six,

    having me recite

    what

    I

    saw

    through the window

    of the

    next

    woman

    who left.

    He returned

    to

    call

    and

    promise

    a million visits,

    only a dozen

    or so

    actually

    fruitful.

    He returned

    to

    buy me

    cigarettes

    at barely

    thirteen,

    to scold

    me

    when the cops returned me

    after curfew,

    to

    miss

    almost

    every

    performance

    or

    game.

    So don’t hold it against me when

    I wish he would have just

    “gone for the milk.”

    Poet’s Note

    I wrote this poem after a conversation with my partner, Kelsey. We were talking after work and they said, “You should write a poem about how you wish your dad had just went for the milk and not came back, like the cliché.” I agreed with that sentiment, and the idea stuck with me.

    Later, I got in the shower and played with the prompt in my head. I was letting the thought move around, twist, and settle. By the time I stepped out, the poem had taken shape. It’s a reflection on absence, failed promises, and the complicated ways someone can return without ever really being there. It’s short, jagged, and uneven because that’s the memory of him, and that’s the truth I wanted to capture.