Aspen Writes Poetry

  The Thin End They say it softly, at first, with the oil-slick assurance of reason. The Act, they call it, like a play that's overstayed its welcome, its curtains faded, its script revised too many times to mean anything now. It's not about you, they say,  not the wheelchair user wheeling past the uncut curb. Not the mother, belly full, aching under a "staff only" sign. Not the pensioner, hands fragile as tissue, counting coins at the till while the queue glares. It's them, they insist, the others. The ones who shift shapes, swap names, stitch themselves into something new. Too much fuss, too much space. Surely, you can see that? But the blade is already out, its first stroke clean, deliberate. The cut barely stings, not yet. You, old man, will feel it when the lift breaks, and no one comes. You, woman, swollen with life, will feel it when the seat is gone, when the door slams shut. You, child with the slanted smile, will feel it in the playground’s whisper,  not...

  In this poem, I explore the constant, exhausting race within my mind, a never-ending cycle of chasing peace, where thoughts twist and hide, and calm feels always just out of reach. This is my personal experience of mental health struggles, but it’s important to recognise that everyone’s journey with mental health is unique. There are many different ways mental health challenges can manifest, and no single experience reflects the whole picture. I’d love to hear your thoughts and insights too; what do you think the public needs to know about mental health? Let’s continue the conversation to foster greater understanding and empathy for all. My mind is a playground,  A never-ending game of tag,  Twisting thoughts that run and hide,  Always seeking - never finding.  A constant struggle between self and mundane,  How exhausting - to chase your own peace, A marathon with no finish line.  These flesh, these bones, do not belong to me.  What ownership do...

 I  pulled my belt tighter, fingers slippery with sweat, each hole a reminder, an ache that wouldn’t forget. The leather shrank in on me, a harsh, deliberate squeeze, each notch a cut into my chest, a price I couldn’t appease. Once, it was room enough to breathe, to eat, now it’s just an endless loop of hunger in defeat. I can’t punch another hole, the metal tongue bit back, no more space, no more breath, no more promise of a crack. The fridge hums empty, a phantom’s warning to the heart, I’ve learned the shape of nothing, how hunger rips apart. The belt, once loose and gentle, now snarls in my ribs’ tight grasp, and I count the holes as if they’re prayers, or a future that might last. But each turn of the dial feels like turning back the clock,  to days when bread was heavier, and I didn’t need to beg the block. I could live with the ache of time, the wanting not to fall, now I’d settle for the hunger if it didn’t rise so tall. So I pull it tighter, another notch to bear...

  The map is a skin we are tearing at the seams, ink-stained by the nibs of men in distant rooms who trade in the currency of  Us  and  Them . They have turned the postcodes into battle lines, drawing circles around some, and crosses through the rest, until the very soil beneath our boots feels like a grudge. We are fed a diet of sharp, metallic words, detainment, mandate, lists , that sit like stones in the belly of the week. The air grows thin with the cold oxygen of suspicion, the way a neighbour looks at a window and wonders which colour is blooming on the ballot paper behind the glass. But look. The sun does not check the polling card before it warms the bricks of the terrace. The rain falls with an equal, silver grace on the Green, the Red, the Blue, the Reform. Our hearts are the same heavy, rhythmic clocks, ticking behind ribs that don't know a border from a fence. Put down the pen that marks the 'X' of hate. Instead, offer the small, subversive braveries: th...