Mental Health

Under the Channel, resting Solitude

I’m just one little rock,
In your river-bed.
The crowd, a fizzle of flooded bubbles;
To wash you with compliments and cut you deep down in your stoney bed.
Without their fickleness you’d would have forgotten your essence, fashioned as hard and dense, but with soft edges.
For their loving nature, is a constant rushing; destined to remember after we’ve all gone away.



Oscillating—                                        No anchors left,                                Just distortion in my mind.                  Why?                                            Because my stereo deleted me.      Because I fell off the bridge.    Because I lost my gum in his hair.

Poem: Naomi Saharski W.                 Photo:Federico Bebber