AA – Alcoholics Ancestry : Rachelle Cox #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

The oldest memories I have lead back to the age of 4 years old
I’m sitting at the bar of a pub my parents used to own
in a booster seat
my father commanding my mother around like she’s some sort of
twisted cinderella
watching them like a game of cat and mouse
that not even Tom and Jerry would want to join in

By the time I was 15 my mother had already had 4 nervous breakdowns
3 suicide attempts, endless trips to the hospital
and an addiction to alcohol
my father, anger issues he used to drink away and shrug
what use is a child in a situation of desperation
when the ones who are supposed to look after you
are the ones causing you despair

Flashbacks to sounds of 3am stumbling
turned into storms that were thundering
through the eyes of a 6 year old
my mother’s ghostly pale eyes haunted me like a nightmare
that I still wake up from
I remember looking at her wondering
if I even know the person stood in front of me
to this day, I’m still unsure

13 years old, I remember wiping away spit off my face
from the mouth of my mother
her vicious words attacking my pores
like they are clogged with too many opinions
but she meant no harm
the next day she does not remember
but how could I ever forget

My sister’s 18th birthday
she decided to throw a party
cake, champagne, close friends
a night to remember
So Cinderella went to the ball
but then the clock hit 12 and the spell came undone
my mum lying on the floor passed out
from her blood alcohol content
the 16 year old hiding in her room
anxiously awaiting for it all to end
I am still anxiously waiting

Some side effects of bipolar disorder are high-risk behaviours such as
spending sprees, drug or alcohol dependency, suicide attempts,
memory loss, forgetting about your responsibilities,
forgetting that you have children to look after,
not recognizing the fear on their faces that you caused

You used to be drunk in love with the family you created,
now you’re hungover stumbling on the mess you made
Mum, I do not hate you
I cannot imagine what demons you are fighting inside
and how brave you are being
but please forgive me if I cannot forget
the nightmares of a child in the back of my mind
when she is still living inside of me

The rest of my family,
oblivious to what is going on under these four walls
name-calling of “over-dramatic” and “attention seeking”
when I would cry out for help
thrown my way as a child
I have learned to be silenced from a young age

I do not want to talk about my own mental health
when my mother’s has been so blatantly ignored
and you know there’s irony
when you feel more comfortable around the baristas at starbucks
than your own family

Family traits run blood thick
and this is how I became the heir
of poor mental health
and crippling anxiety that I never asked for
but inheritance is inevitable

Wolf : Lucy Harbron #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

I emerged
grey and screaming. Howling
my wolf’s howl;
calling to a mother that didn’t understand
and a father that looked on with drooped eyes,
blinking hard, as if to wake up and try it all again.

I lay in their arms but itched
irritated, their soft unbroken skin catching
under my crowning claws.
I guess he saw them first.
Only holding me briefly, never to let me pierce;
never to let me mark him,
for that might make it real, I harm
therefore I am.

I learnt to walk on my hind legs as told,
clipped my nails, hid my fur.
They adapted as all did and held me when I was hurt,
hunted me when I hurt them.
I saw myself, gradually, in the mirror;
saw the forest fires in my eyes,
the habitual predator looking back from me,
the eyes of my father blazing
from my face, a sheep’s face
with wolf eyes.

I growled as I heard him growl at midnight,
every third Tuesday when I would not sleep.
I ate as he ate, when one fell behind.
I grew teeth as he’d bite.
I took his coat;
wrapped in it, swaddled like a baby
merging with the instincts of their parents.
I evolved as he did, for if you wear a coat so long
it becomes yours.

Alone in a pack, I transform
as he challenged me to,
White wool to grey fur in the full moon
of a living room lamp.

Protest : Fred Ostrovskis #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

We are all ants.
Some of us run further
from the safety of the colony
but we are always
under the shadow of a boot.
Our backs ache.
We carry food and shelter
and worry and pain
as we scuttle through undergrowth
and drown in rain.
We lose ourselves.
Or at least our thoughts
disappear in droves,
Taken by those who don’t
want us to know that
one million ants
are much bigger
than a boot.

Social (Me)dia : Tayla Halfacre #WorldPoetryDay

head talks

This field in its excess:
Vast and overwhelming.
A life within a life that stops
A life that can be lived like a
life should be.

A distorted mirror with vague
Cracks and marks in abundance
Nothing more than a small boost:
Nothing less than what could be.

“But you said it ‘could be’?”
“Does that mean it is?”
Mixed up, it’s mixed up (I feel sick)
Like; like; like; like; like
I could be more than this.

The searching never stops.
(Now considering locks…)
To take off again (and again)
So much for sharing…

Impressions : A Poetry Collection By Fred Ostrovskis

head talks


A family lay framed upon the walnut,
Dust collecting, isolated in neglect –
A room, ivory and gold, cleansed of dirt,
Empty of soul, the Emperor sits in wait.

Glass, crystal, clear visions of the towers,
A mirror of the powers climbing up
to take his throne – woollen armour,
chain mail of silk, his sword signs paper
white as milk, a list of crimson fit to spill
by the bullet of the phone.

A family lay hidden within a drawer,
Skin now framed upon the walnut;
Sweat dripped down with every thrust,
The Emperor, yet to conquer lust,
Looked across
a room so full of wealth,
And in that threatening mirror,
Saw an empty, frightened self.


He sat on the bench
to look over his sanctuary,
Ignoring the cold metal
like he ignored his armchair
of sandpaper steps,
Or the piss-stained mattress
of an underpass bed;
It smelled of flowers here,
Not wet brick or brake dust,
But roses he had handed,
Heart bounding in its cage of ribs,
To a lover he still tasted as
the breeze past through his lips.
A wave of quiet conjured memories
changed the landscape of the park –
The tree with a knuckled bough
morphed to his mother’s callous palm,
Leaves thrown by a playing child
moved like lines that, when she smiled,
Seemed to radiate her calm;
The fountain trickled with her tears,
Collected from the years he’d spent
running from her arms,
Then through the iron fencing,
The city called with howling horns,
Roaring running engines that
when blended transformed,
Into an insomniac cacophony
that soaked over every pore;
He walked out from his sanctuary,
Like he walked out from her door.


I could hear the whisper of your
war drum wing,
As I lost myself in slumber,
Tapping at the window pane
Like a stone thrown by an
ancient lover;
You both hold a painful sting.
I watched your dance a
little while,
The energy of the trapped,
In front of you
lay all you knew,
An entire world
Finally, I lent my hand
to you,
And pushed the window back,
I didn’t see the flow, the ebb
of a waving net – the spider’s web
that I’d placed within
your track.
Stuck fast within a steel
silk wall,
Tissue wings no use,
I left you there
and on I stared
In the silence of
the brute.

Guns In Their Houses – A poem by Elisa B

culture & society, head talks

come on,
be yourself.

make sure your house
inside is filled with joy.

start off with
your first walk,
tiny step
I fall,
now I stand tall.


sing your soul out.
smoothing and calming
bang bang
you’re dead
shot in the head
3 times, 2 times, one.


dance your heart
out. breathe in
bang bang
50 people are dead.

and hold.

nothing else can be told.
disasters, and misery
in busy streets.

and candles on the floor,
I’m sorry they’re not here anymore.

these people,
put guns in their houses
and looked at their watches.
time ticked and ticked
and all we heard was gun shots.

people are crying,
and sighing yet
guns are still in their houses.

bang bang.