Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: mental health poetry

  • Title: Ramblings of the Lost and Found – Poetry by Axton Mitchell

    Title: Ramblings of the Lost and Found – Poetry by Axton Mitchell

    Ramblings of the Lost and Found is the second full-length poetry collection by Axton Mitchell. A transgender poet exploring the raw intersections of identity, grief, love, survival, and memory. Written over the span of a season in time. This 63-poem collection captures the in-betweens of life: the moments that break you, rebuild you, and leave you asking why.

    Through vivid, intimate snapshots, Axton navigates relationships, trauma, mental health, queer joy, and parental loss. Each piece feels like a note from a storm or a whispered secret from a healing place. Either way, offering readers a deeply human, unflinching perspective on life’s complexities.

    Content Warning:

    Themes include grief, death of a parent, trauma, mental illness, identity-based experiences, and suicidal ideations.

    Why You’ll Love This Collection:

    Vulnerable and unfiltered exploration of life’s emotional landscapes 63 poems capturing the messy beauty of existence. Insight into the lived experience of a transgender poet, perfect for readers seeking connection, reflection, and honesty.

    Read, Reflect, & Connect:

    You can experience samples of this collection on:

    Wattpad. Quotev. Booksie.

    Purchase the full collection here:

    Etsy. Payhip. Gumroad. Amazon. Google Play.

    Want to explore more?

    Visit Poeaxtry and the Prism’s Archive Cheat Sheet. Discover all post categories, with a blurb and link to full post archive for each. Then find every post in that category in chronological order.

    Poeaxtry Links. Portfolio. Coffee?
    Beginnings and Endings.

  • 100 Days of Poems- Day 9: “Pain on Purpose”- Things Love won’t do

    100 Days of Poems- Day 9: “Pain on Purpose”- Things Love won’t do

    TW- Topic is Physical Abuse in intimate relationships if that’s too much today save this for another day.

    Some literary and visual artworks are written slowly, over weeks, shaped by distance and reflection.

    Others arrive all at once, urgent, sharp, and unwilling to wait.

    This piece lives in that second category. It speaks to intentional harm, to the lie that pain can be justified by love, and to the quiet danger of staying when leaving feels impossible.

    Pain on Purpose exists to name what should never be normalized.

    Pain on Purpose

    I wish I could say

    I didn’t quite

    understand

    why

    you

    chose to believe

    purposeful pain

    could come

    from an

    individual who truly loved you

    Actions

    aligned more with

    their same behavior

    after anything they claim they own

    isn’t fucking flawless

    Love doesn’t

    look like

    this

    Eyes swelled shut

    will hopefully heal soon,

    allowing insight

    to guide you toward leaving,

    or

    you may lose your life

    Human hands held hopes

    now

    positioned painful, precise punches,

    willingly wronging you without worry.

    Did a part of this piece hit you, linger a little longer, or spark a line of your own? Leave a comment with the feeling that stayed the longest/hit the hardest/ came out of the blue, or the thought it created. No need to explain your pain to engage with this work. Presence is enough. All commenters interactions welcomed and appreciated.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem was written in response to witnessing the ongoing cycle of relationship abuse and the silence that so often surrounds it.

    Abuse does not always happen behind closed doors, and it does not always stop when there are witnesses. What stays with me is not just the violence itself, but the way people look away, rationalize, or convince themselves it is not their place to intervene.

    The phrase “purposeful pain” matters here. Abuse is not accidental. It is not a misunderstanding. It is a choice made repeatedly, reinforced by control, fear, and isolation. This poem speaks directly to the myth that love can coexist with intentional harm. It cannot. Or that staying leads to the abuse stopping. It doesn’t. Love does not require endurance of violence to prove loyalty. Love does not demand silence to survive.

    Writing this was not about offering solutions or advice. It was about naming the danger plainly, without euphemism, and refusing to soften what is already too often minimized.

    Pain on Purpose is a reminder, to anyone who needs it, that harm disguised as love is still harm. Survival should never require shrinking, hiding, or accepting violence as the cost of connection. Poetry cannot stop abuse on its own, but it can tell the truth out loud, and sometimes that truth is the first crack in the wall.

    If you know someone who creates work that calls out abuse, enjoys work that speaks support to those who feel weak, or needs to be held by words that refuse to lie, please share this poem with them. Let it move where it needs to move.

    Hey, One Last Thing Before You Go..

    If you love poetry that calls out many forms of abuse. For example highlighting victims of political, intimate, financial, emotional, economic, and other forms of abuse in uplifting and resourceful ways. Or if you love supporting honest, independent publishing, please consider donating to help sustain our penned pain, pleasure, peace, positivity, and publishing projects.

    You can support the work here:

    • Ko-Fi,

    • Buy Me a Coffee,

    • cashapp

    •PayPal

    All support helps keep these projects accessible, independent, and community-driven.

    👉 Poeaxtry’s Links, link in bio

  • Day 4 Poem: Profound Fall | 100 Days of Poetry by Poeaxtry

    Day 4 Poem: Profound Fall | 100 Days of Poetry by Poeaxtry

    Day 4 of my 100 Days of Poetry series is about those quiet loops of thought, the small moments where we forget ourselves, forget our worth, or forget who we can lean on. Sometimes the fall we’re waiting for never comes, and yet the anticipation itself shapes us. This poem is an attempt to capture that suspended space between expectation and reality.

    Profound Fall

    Sometimes my brain

    likes to play

    these little games

    Sometimes I forget

    that I’m worth

    anything at all.

    Sometimes I forget

    exactly who and when

    I can call

    I’m counting on the fall,

    the metaphorical one

    that has yet to come.

    Sometimes I forget

    that I was even

    waiting for it.

    It seems this year

    I turned 34,

    my feet have yet

    to leave the ground.

    Isn’t that profound?

    Poet’s note

    This poem was written as a reflection on self-forgetfulness and quiet anticipation. The “fall” is intentionally open-ended, representing both what we expect from life and what we wait for internally. Writing it was about noticing those small pauses, those moments of doubt, and giving them space on the page without judgment. It’s about the tension between inertia and hope, between standing still and yearning for change.

    “Profound Fall” invites readers to sit with the internal rhythm of thought and reflection. It asks us to notice where we are grounded, where we hesitate, and how waiting can be as significant as action. Sometimes the profound comes not from movement, but from awareness, from pausing long enough to see where our mind and body meet.

    100 days links

  • Poeaxtry_ is Where the People Are; Who Thrives and Why? A Deep Dive!

    Poeaxtry_ is Where the People Are; Who Thrives and Why? A Deep Dive!

    Hello Familiar Friends and New Names.

    And welcome where we are all people, first!

    Welcome to a space where we are all people first!

    At Poeaxtry_, I like to say that one of our mottos is “Poeaxtry_, where the people are.” But did I ever explain what that actually boils down to?

    Simply put: I don’t want to force anyone to find me. I want people who might be interested in reading, submitting, creating, or even just engaging with the emotional, hiking, or other free content I share, to discover me naturally and connect in their own way.

    That’s why I post the digital creations, and photos or videos I capture with my phone across social platforms. These posts share the highlights in text on the visual media, summaries in the captions, and links to read more if interested on my website. This site holds the “meat and potatoes,” also known as the full content. This leaves my work accessible to all fully in one place that doesn’t anyone to create an account to view. However subscribers to the website do receive a reward, but I’m probably getting ahead of myself. We’ll get all of that and more soon!

    Quality is Key

    There’s a difference between followers and believers, between noise and signal, between people who swipe and people who stay. Subscribers mean nothing when the numbers aren’t noticing or notifying. Numbers are nothing if they aren’t the people you resonate with.

    This post is a deep dive into the kinds of creators, readers, contributors, critics and community members who thrive at Poeaxtry_ and The Poetry Prism. I’m including a small reminder of our ethos that holds it all together.

    This isn’t about chasing numbers or chasing dopamine. It’s about quality, intention, and connection.

    Who Thrives Here?

    Readers Who Connect.

    People who may read something more than once to see what else is hiding.

    They look for depth over new discovery, connection over content trends.

    They pause, reflect, and engage with work that might challenge societies views or refuse pretend peacefulness.

    Creators Who Make With Purpose

    Not hobbyists. Not algorithm chasers.

    They craft poems like prayers, build zines like love letters, or publish work that has purpose.

    These creators make not for only applause, but because their work demands to hold space.

    Marginalized Voices & Intersectional Art

    We built this space because such spaces were scarce:

    LGBTQ+ voices, Disabled creatives, Neurodivergent makers, people in recovery, creators of color, and other communities America keeps attacking.

    This is visibility with intention, support with structure, and room without hierarchy.

    Contributors & Collaborators Who Grow Together

    This is a working ecosystem, not a pond of competitors.

    Here, people:

    Give and receive constructive feedback, look at success as mutual elevation, respect identities, collaborate while creating creative comrades, compete in creative showdowns, and much more.

    Discord Twitch

    Who This Isn’t For

    Algorithm chasing creators who aren’t the same as creative people they are much different.

    If your goal is to rage bait or chase clicks, this space isn’t for you.

    We value substance over fake.

    The “I’m above you” energy? Not going to fly here.

    Harm, Discrimination, Prejudice

    We do not tolerate dehumanizing behavior.

    Bigotry or discrimination that is based on race, gender, sexuality, disability, mental health, or any other immutable identity ends your collaboration here immediately.

    This is a safe creative community no slut shaming, body shaming, or politics. Transgender identity isn’t politics if you think so I don’t think you need me to tell me shit,

    poeaxtry’s website (updated first) Shared to mainstream & emerging social platforms Direct community spaces Publishing & sales: Amazon/Kindle, Google Play Books, Etsy, Gumroad, Payhip

    At Poeaxtry_ we are not tied to a single platform, always expanding.

    Community Spaces & Engagement

    I’m building safe, collaborative spaces for writers, artists, and makers:

    Discord with Collaborative threads, competitions, open mic nights, custom roles for interactions, and more. Feedback invited, not forced; silence allowed. Rest & presence valued over performance always.

    Publishing & Opportunities

    Poeaxtry’s Poetry Prism offers:

    Free publishing for minority indie creators: poetry, prose, visual art, mixed media, experimental work and Indie spotlights for indie creatives and small businesses Collaborative projects, resource sharing, critique circles

    2026 Initiatives

    Our new Quarterly digital magazine with open submissions, my own features, resource guides, advice sections addressing current issues, and open budget friendly calls for submissions.

    Also be looking for virtual and local open mic nights

    This is the ecosystem for those who thrive here creating, collaborating, connecting, and building together.

    Values Hold Poeaxtry_ Together

    Integrity, respect, care.

    Bigotry, discrimination, or harm ends collaboration immediately.

    We realistically can’t do full vetting or background checks but we know the truth surfaces naturally. Then we will act accordingly.

    This isn’t a growth strategy.

    This is a creative home for people who:

    Read meaningfully, create with care, connect generously, and Build community over content creating trend climbing.

    Your voice matters here. So if it’s genuine, grounded, and human come connect !

    Welcome to Poeaxtry_ and The Poetry Prism.

    Links portfolio kofi coffee?

    Google business reviews Goodreads

  • Hopeless Holiday | Day 2 of 100 Days of Poetry

    Hopeless Holiday | Day 2 of 100 Days of Poetry

    The holidays have a strange way of resurfacing old versions of ourselves. The child who waited. The belief that good things arrived simply because we hoped hard enough. For many of us, that version feels distant now, replaced by a quieter, more guarded endurance.

    This poem is not about celebration. It’s about survival during a season that insists on cheer, even when hope feels rationed. Day two of writing and posting one poem a day is about naming that shift honestly, without pretending it doesn’t exist.

    Hopeless Holiday

    This year’s “holiday cheer”

    is nostalgic in a way I’ve come to

    fear.

    Though,

    I used to wait for Santa,

    sitting still, filled with untamable

    hope.

    Now it seems the hope he brings

    is more about having at least one thing

    left to hope for at all.

    Being hopeless on Christmas

    would have to be worse than this.

    Poet’s Note

    This poem isn’t about Santa, and it isn’t about religion or tradition. Santa exists here as a symbol of effortless hope, the kind we’re given as children without conditions, without proof, without fear of disappointment.

    As adults, hope changes. It becomes smaller, more deliberate. Sometimes it’s not about joy at all, but about refusing to let everything go dark at once. This piece lives in that space, where hope hasn’t vanished, but it no longer arrives freely.

    Hope doesn’t always look like joy. Sometimes it looks like refusal. Sometimes it looks like staying present through a season that hurts, instead of opting out completely.

    This poem holds that tension without resolving it, because not everything needs to be resolved to be honest. Day two is about acknowledging that hope can shrink and still matter, especially during the holidays.

    Day one. Links. Portfolio.

  • Things are Changing for Poeaxtry Community Collaborations

    Things are Changing for Poeaxtry Community Collaborations

    Shifting the Prism’s Collaborations Into a Quarterly Publication

    The why behind Collaborations

    I launched community collabs with one goal to create publications for marginalized voices to be heard. (I wanted to help their art be seen too, of course, and their business be found.) To be read by others would then be able to find voices similar to their own. Themed calls gave structure, that I thought would help. However, I like art when the creator feels compelled to create it, not when it’s created per a submission theme.

    Why I’m Changing the Model

    It became clear that themes sometimes act as invisible boundaries. They shaped not only what people created, but who felt comfortable submitting. Themes feel a bit too much like gatekeepers, for my comfort. Hear me out, you had to fit the art, poem, or essay in like a key based on theme.

    That contradicts who I am or whom I want to be. I want this space to belong to the creators themselves. I want to invite people to bring what’s real. What’s needed, even if it doesn’t fit.

    So I decided: no more themes. Instead, I’m opening Poeaxtry up to open‑theme quarterly magazines. I was already planning a Quarterly & this fits the bill.


    Any suggestions on names? Guesses welcome!

    This change isn’t a retreat. It’s expansion. By removing themes, the door stays open wider for more voices, more art, more perspectives. By increasing frequency, I can amplify more people across time.

    What’s Changing: The New Quarterly Model

    Open‑theme submission calls:
    poetry, prose, art,or essays


    rights stay with creators:
    you keep your work. Poeaxtry curates and publishes but does not claim ownership or restrict distribution.
    Contributor bios, links, and photos welcome!

    Free ads space to minority‑owned shops, indie authors, small businesses to support community visibility.

    Digital magazine format means no forced downloads
    Eliminates 4 bulky PDFs a year.
    Always Viewable online
    Readers & Contributors now can share by link

    2026 Quarterly Schedule

    (Submission + Publication Dates may change slightly!)

    Q1 2026 (First Edition)

    Taking submissions: now– Feb 12, 2026

    Launch: Mar 8–15, 2026

    Q2 2026 (Second Edition)

    Taking submissions: March 9-May 5th

    Launch: Jun 5–12, 2026

    Q3 2026 (Third Edition)

    Taking submissions:Jun 5 – Aug 5, 2026

    Sep 5–12, 2026

    Q4 2026 (Fourth Edition)

    Taking submissions: Sep 5 – Oct 31, 2026

    Launch: Dec 5–12, 2026

    Note: The first edition will include existing submissions from the original themed collabs. It will also include any new open-theme submissions received during the submission window. Future editions will be fully open‑theme. The last quarter is stretched out because of holidays, birthdays, and death days.

    What This Means for Contributors & Community

    You’re free to send your work when you feel ready. This includes poetry, art, essays, and prose, just like before, just no need to match a theme. The spotlights from the website will be shared in the quarterly as well. The magazine lives online, shareable by link. More frequent releases = more opportunities for visibility, community building, connection.

    What Happens to the Original Themed submissions?

    Their submitted work will be included in the first quarterly edition as long as they consent.

    No more waiting.
    Just art, voices, visions.

    Your Voice Matters, Always

    Poeaxtry was born from a belief that the best art comes from the darkest places. That minority voices of every difference have stories and voices that matter. Lastly, to build a community for all of us to share our creations with each other and the world.

    This shift isn’t a change of heart, it’s evolution. As the world shifts, as art shifts, as voices shift, we must too…

    Shift.

    If you’re a minority artist, an ally writer, a survivor turned storyteller. Send in your voices or visions to Poeaxtryspoetryprism@gmail.com or submit this form.

    Small business owners, entrepreneurs, indie-creatives, communities, etc. send your ads to the above email or form as well!

    To have a Spotlight post on the website fill out this form or email Poeaxtry@gmail.com
    To review ebooks and other digital items in exchange for honest reviews, use this form

    Thank you for being here. Let’s start building community.

    Axton N. O. Mitchell

  • A Letter I will never send.

    A Letter I will never send.

    Personality:

    A poem about how somethings you do not grow out of.

    I am 33 

    Ohhhh no I am a grown man 

    & I never stopped writing poetry 

    about how much 

    My god damn dad sucks.

    Sorry kids sometimes 

    It’s just the way it is. 

    Some of us are cool enough 

    to keep the angst as our 

    entire personality. 

    The letter:

    Jake ,

    I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for you. Waiting on moms or grandmas porch until one of the two of them would no longer let me wait. Friday nights, dressed and ready, because you said you were coming. Then Saturday. Then Sunday. The same cycle of hope and disappointment that carved itself into my developing brain until doctors gave it a name: Borderline Personality Disorder. A condition born from abandonment between ages 5-17. A condition you created on your own with every promise broken.

    What’s my middle name? My second middle name? When’s my birthday? How old am I? What city do I live in? These aren’t trick questions – they’re the most basic facts about your child that you’ve never bothered to hold onto.

    I remember who wasn’t there when I broke bones, hit my first grand-slam, every time I was sick or sad. I remember who didn’t answer calls for days. I remember throwing fits, screaming and crying for you while my mother held me. I remember being used as your detective, held up to ex-girlfriends’ windows to report back who was inside. I remember your siblings giving me presents “from you” – but if they were truly from you, why didn’t you come too?

    Don’t forget Todd was always a savage – that’s why he caught you following him and mom and you stood on the bar and told everyone you were a pussy so you didn’t take that loss too” He always was my dad and it wasn’t ever you. And that’s why I called you dad 2 to your face, and there was nothing you could do.

    I remember a magistrate threatening my mom with jail if she didn’t get me to you, and I agreed because I didn’t want to hurt her. But at your house, I was always an outcast. I remember going to side jobs with you when I could because your wife was abusing me. I remember crying for you so many times, wrecking my mom’s house because I couldn’t understand: why didn’t you want a relationship with me like you had with your other kids?

    You had court-ordered visitation days set -up by you and still didn’t show up. That isn’t my mother’s fault. Whatever my mother did to you should have had no effect on your relationship with me. Yet you’ve spent years trying to blame her, as if I haven’t been an adult making my own choices for the last 14 years.

    I smoked weed in high school and you treated me like I was on crack, but when Matthew did the same thing, you had no problem with it. I was diagnosed with ADHD and you said it was “all BS” and my mom was crazy, but when Jacob had the same diagnosis, you accepted it without question.

    Remember when I had nowhere to go with your almost 2-year-old grandson? You told me it was “time to stretch my wings and leave the nest.” So at 18, a high school dropout with no license and no help, I gave up my rights to my son. Yet somehow Jason still lives with you and Jessica (with her kids) too? I guess even they trump me and your grandkid.

    I’ve watched you effortlessly try for everyone but me. I’ve seen your step-daughter share posts about what an awesome father you are to her. I’ve watched you accept your step-kids with open arms while shutting the door on me. What was wrong with me that made me so unwelcome when everyone else found a place in your life?

    You let your wife beat me . You let my step-cousin sexually assault me on Christmas Eve. You bribed me with car rides because you knew I just wanted to spend time with you, then you’d disappear for months.

    I didn’t choose you to be my dad, but you chose to have me. If you didn’t want the responsibility, you should have signed your rights away instead of keeping me hanging on, hoping you’d eventually show up consistently. You poked a whole in a condom for all of this?

    I don’t want your money. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t even want your apology anymore. What I wanted was a father who showed up, who knew me, who protected me, who made me feel like I mattered as much as your other children.

    That ship has sailed. I got to meet and know the parent who was there for me. I don’t have any desire to be around a deadbeat who doesn’t even know what city I live in.

    One day you might regret never actually knowing me. Or maybe you won’t. Either way, I’m done waiting by the window.

    Your oldest son.

    Oh yea and dad P.S.

    I’d let you go to the worst nursing home in the world before I ever thought to help you.

    Oldest son:

    A poem about how one transgender man grew up to be the man he wished would have raised him, but own his own.

    Meanwhile, I am thirty three,

    One would assume it’s about time I get over my chronic case of 

    Teenage angst. 

    I am not even sure if I  could 

    Call it that, anymore. 

    Pick your face up off the floor 

    Your oldest so became a man

    And 

    You never had to hold my hand 

    I wasn’t potty training until  9 

    You never had to lie about my 

    Age to hide the statutory 

    Rape

    But

    I would say that I hate you 

    add I do 

    Repeat that pretty frequently

    It’s easier than explaining the

    Nothingness I feel  when it

    Comes to you

     

    I  won’t let anymore of the  

    Daughter you never got to knows

    Tears fall out of your oldest 

    sons eyes

    They aren’t mine to cry. 

    In high school I struggled 

    When the numb feeling would 

    Overcome me 

    And everything. 

    For once I feel nothing, and I don’t

    Want to feel anything. 

    It’s comforting. 

    Back then

    I did not yet discover 

    My brain had the ick 

    And it was you that 

    Made me 

    S

    I

    C

    K

    Poeaxtry’s Link

    Portfolio

  • Reflecting

    Reflecting

    Reflecting is a deeply personal poem that journeys through heartbreak, growth, healing, and looking back. This piece is an honest transformation from sadness to strength. Making it relatable to anyone thinking this heartache will do them in. Perfect for fans of authentic, introspective poetry and those seeking comfort through words. Available now in my first collection, “Beginnings and Endings.” Gumroad & Payhip Etsy & Amazon


    “Reflecting”

    In your bed with you
    (which was actually mine, but never mind)

    Feeling alone with you
    (probably because I was more alone than ever) 

    always a fight with us
    (which was really you gaslighting me, but what do I know) 

    Nothing’s ever right with us
    (nothing was ever good enough for you, not even the moon). 

    What’s going on with us?
    (this was your game of cat and mouse.) 

    want to lay down
    (killing my energy for your own enjoyment) 

    Want to feel your love
    (the effects of life without care) 

    Lust to feel your touch
    (you keep it away so I wouldn’t realize I didn’t need it) 

    But what is going on with us?
    (your narc spiral around and around) 

    If I could rewind to a time where you were sure
    (I wouldn’t; now please fast-forward) 

    I’d be there in an instant
    (not now, not ever). 

    I don’t like the distance in this California king
    (I bought a smaller one; now it is fine)

    Our dreams turn to unseen things
    (my self-consciousness was onto you the whole time). 

    What’s going on with us?
    (You need another break? Oh, you just want to go on another date. 

    Are you done with me?
    (the answer I learned was no, you will never be.) 

    Can’t you see?
    (I’m done and leaving. No contact) 

    You can’t be you and I can’t be me without connection in between.
    (you wanted me to feel this way, so I would never escape.)

    The added lines in “Reflecting” are in the (parenthesis).

    If reflecting resonates with you,
    you can get your own copy at the links above!
    OR
    If you would like to support my work, get the collection for free by emailing poeaxtry@gmail.com and asking about “Honest reviews in exchange for free e-books and zines.”
    Seriously, all you have to do is review it and be honest, and I’ll give you another after that for the same purpose!

    Your support helps keep my solo Poetry and collabs alive and growing. Thank you for coming on through!

    Form for free review links Poetizer Form for Indie Spotlight

  • “Anti-Depressants” Grief, My Mother, and the Limits of Healing

    “Anti-Depressants” Grief, My Mother, and the Limits of Healing

    Grief has a way of showing up right when the world is shouting about holiday cheer. Every neon display tells you to be merry. Every commercial insists that joy is mandatory. It hits harder when your heart is carrying loss. This poem confronts that tension directly. It’s the kind where love and pain sit in the same room. You find yourself trying to breathe through both. Readers who have carried a loss through the holiday season will recognize that raw pull. Those who have tried to balance healing with real life will also feel it. In a world that doesn’t slow down, this piece reminds you that grief doesn’t follow the calendar. It follows the heart, step by step, memory by memory.

    “Happy fucking holiday.”

    An original poem by: Axton N.O. Mitchell

    I’m depressed,

    and my life isn’t even a mess

    compared to what it used to be.

    Recently, I learned:

    grief isn’t something

    medication will ever ease.

    You
    have
    to
    let
    it

    drop you to your knees.


    The pills really do work

    for what they’re worth.

    But I still have to get used

    to the loss of you.

    And now your dog is gone too.

    She held so many memories
    of you:

    the way you put her in your purse,

    the way you two were attached.

    The way she looked
    at me
    like she knew
    she’d be with you.

    Letting
    go

    has never come easy to me.

    I don’t think

    I’ll ever fully heal

    the loss of
    you.

    Maybe I can’t…

    If it’s true

    medicine for depression

    can’t touch

    what grief has caused.

    Now what will

    carry me
    through

    the loss of
    you?

    This one came out of the type of day when everything felt too close. I kept thinking about how healing never looks like what people promise. Folks hand out easy lines. They say time heals everything, or that pills fix the hurt. However, they never sit with what grief really does. Losing someone shifts the ground under you, and sometimes the memories that stay behind hit just as hard. Even the dog carried pieces of that story. Writing this was my way to accept the truth. Medicine can soften the edges, but it can’t erase the shape of a loss. It felt important to say it out loud. If someone out there needs that same permission to feel what they feel, I hope this poem offers them comfort. This poem can give them space to breathe.

    Grief asks us to carry the weight of love long after someone is gone. It shows up in the soft places, the unexpected reminders, the empty corners where laughter used to live. This poem is part of a larger journey through healing and memory. It explores the fragile work of moving forward even when the heart refuses to forget. If this piece met you where you are today, stay with that feeling. Let it be a reminder that your grief is real, and your healing is real. You don’t have to rush toward some polished version of recovery. You’re allowed to take it slow. You’re allowed to remember. You’re allowed to feel all of it… especially on the days when the world tells you to smile.

    Poeaxtrys Links. Poetizer. A poem.


  • “Yesterday” Poem of the Past and Memory by Axton N. O. Mitchell

    “Yesterday” Poem of the Past and Memory by Axton N. O. Mitchell

    “Yesterday”

    A 2025 Original poem by Axton N.O. Mitchell

    I found my old notebook yesterday

    man I knew I should have throw it away.

    reading over the words I’d only written and never say

    somethings they never change

    a gut punch from the past hitting me full blast

    each and every emotion

    I feel as if the day I wrote them was

    yesterday

    thinking about the fact that I know not one of these people anymore

    is so surreal it brings me

    chills

    it is a different thrill

    I’m sure you don’t get this but

    those who know will

    and the guardian does

    Memo from the Author:

    Stay tethered.

    More stories and voices will come.

    This is only the beginning.

    Axton Mitchell's poem yesterday on a ripped tan background written in black and red text

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