Half-Heartedly

Hey there, it's Lydia here! This is a poem I wrote last week. I'm going to be posting my poetry on our blog more often, so keep checking our site! 

I don’t know its Location,

it should be on the left 

below my breast

in that general station.

Beneath cages of solid white

and fillings of pink 

wrapped in a cocoon-like state

where blue or maybe red pours, 

restlessly chasing each strip 

from finger to feet. 

But I cannot find its location. 

The doctor said all is well 

that aorta is functioning 

and left atrium is all in place, 

that your heart beats bebum-bebum

pushing golden life in regular trace. 

You’re pretty and young – 

I don’t understand 

How can you not find its Location? 

Ah, I think I remember now

as light poured onto my form

seen through a crack all broken and torn. 

A Greenhouse 

shimmering impenetrable grace

filled with sunflowers wet with dew

and bees floating from each face. 

There are splinters

shards all battered and blue

some mended some not 

crying when the cold wind blew. 

I felt that

fingers grazing that bloody wall

the bees stop, 

the sunflowers shudder, die and drop

and a stage comes into view.

a candle 

flickering 

flickering 

gone

I cannot find its Location 

Strangers

Hey guys, its Lydia here! I was trying to challenge myself to write a poem a week to keep up my creativity for university, but me being lazy didn't write anything last week. So now I must discipline myself, so I will be writing two poems this week to make up for last week. I hope you guys like this one.
I'm also posting my poems on my Tumblr account, search for Literature-addict and give me a follow.

Connection hums in the air,

Both hairs a flow of dark auburn,

And sapphire eyes stare in knowing recognition.

Identical voices, low and considering in passing questions,

Although polite, answering is plain and shallow.

An ignorant bond is known under crust,

Trying to push a paternal union.

But nothing can break an infinite void

Of infant screams unanswered, or grasping invisible palms –

With collection of missed calls, and promises unkept.

They felt the half-hearted appreciation, and struggling affection,

That showed in limp hugs and simple birthday cards -

That is never breathed, neither timeless bare concert seats, and the distant voice of bedtime stories.

Same hot blood revealed impersonal silences

Then only faded knowledge of each other.

Cherished love and kindness might be seen by acquaintances,

Yet time saw cold strangers.

She Will Always Remain

Hi guys, it's Lydia here. This is probably the latest post I've ever written, but I finally found some time to edit and share this poem. I wrote this a few months ago, in a pretty horrible time for me. But I found that writing about my anxiety and picturing it as a living breathing person helped me focus my mind, it gave me a sense of clarity. Obviously anxiety or any mental illness has no form or shape, but for each person I think the way they visualise and imagine their illness is different to each individual mind. But tell me what you think and if you feel comfortable enough share your experiences with how your or a loved ones mental illness effects your way of life.


It attacks in happy hours,
Laughter escaping open mouths.
In times not foreseen, when minds are running water.

She appears as mist, that thins through floorboards.
Or beady spiders twitching in bedroom corners.
The Lady of 'ifs' and 'buts', whose face appears despite comfort.
The Monstrous Mistress, white fingers shadowing true sight,
Watery grey eyes that loom in waking sleep.

In minds blank peace she calls -
Her cold caress breathing in ears,
You've forgotten something.
Her purple lips gleeful in anxious agony.
Lounging, watching as fingernails stab palms,
As fidgeting eyes scan around frightful,
Finding something, someone to stop her presumptions.

As clammy backs cool, the echoing thuds reside.
She crawls back through silky glass.
Into innocent eyes, down, down within
She sings I am you. I can never leave.