Is this the very last poem I will ever write? Found that question lingering inside tonight. If it was my last ink would I write of spite. Or write of things I like, would it feel right. Mostly my scribbles have processed my early life There isn't much I've recalled from there but strife Mother hated me, she sold me, abuse was rife. By the age of six for protection I bought a knife Perhaps note times I was blessed by a beautiful day. Flowers, trees and the breeze, a golden sun ray. Leave wisdom, things I didn't, but I needed to say. Memories, joy of my children when they were at play. Outside of the window, circulate visions of hell. Perhaps warnings of malice I should foretell Because I can't take it with me, poison the well. Scratches left on the walls of life's loneliest cell. Should stanzas overflow with abundance of rhyme. Use wonderful metaphors from time to time. Talk of love or use words that burn as quick lime. Reality check, I doubt if the choice is really mine. God knows, not me, if with the sun I'll wake tomorrow. Or bequeath those I love with even a moment's sorrow. If I knew, this was the last, would I sit and wallow. What would I leave at the last, for those who follow?

Creativity flows with tears, I don't know about a piece, but I've scribbled a few lines. Strong inside, keep it inside, get up in the morning, To watch again in front of me, the source of my own strength decline. So I cry inside, keep it inside, strong inside, get up in the morning Those words are hollow, but at present the best I can find. I've said before, despair is a privilege for those with the time. Guess I'm embracing privilege this time. It's fucked on every level. Not ready to embrace death, just feel today hope has died. Strong inside, keep it inside, get up in the morning. Air is free, intake, breathe, the bit that's allocated as mine. Is it hard to grieve? I didn't cry when my mother died. My father's dying, I feel disappointed, I was getting to know him for the first time. Don't think that really counts, it hurts less than watching each morning, The source of my own strength decline, whilst I'm crying inside. Smiling at my daughter saying, don't worry mummy will be fine. I nearly lost a ewe this week, a sheep I delivered when I played midwife for the first time. Fly strike, nasty, maggots eating the animal alive. Then just as I thought she would be fine. The sheep had a seizure, I thought she’d died. But sheep have an inner strength, By the next morning she was eating grass just fine. Strong inside, keep it inside, get up in the morning. Can you grieve for a sheep? If she'd died I think I might have cried. C’est la Vie

Release has an afterimage. Even after something leaves your hands, the body can keep bracing for its weight. Lessheld names the space that appears when carrying finally changes and your system has to learn the new dimensions. At first, freedom can feel oddly unfamiliar. The shoulders wait for pressure that never arrives. The calendar opens. The mind reaches for an old obligation and finds air. Lessheld is the moment capacity returns quietly enough to be mistaken for emptiness. What became possible after you finally set something down? ✨ SEAL OF ENOUGHNESS ✨ I allow less to be enough.

An Anthology Premiere 📅 September 16, 2026 🕖 7:00 PM ET The record opens. Join us for the official Launch Celebration of It’s Time: Notes from the End of Patience, the first volume of the Scriptura Archive. Before the book becomes publicly available later this month, we’re opening the doors for a first encounter with the work itself. 📖 During the evening: - Contributors will read selected excerpts from their pieces. - We’ll share first looks at material inside the anthology that has not been fully revealed. - We’ll open parts of the archive, including historical voices and records woven through the book. - We’ll talk about how this collection grew from individual pieces into a larger record of memory, survival, family, history, and what people carry forward. Some of the voices inside these pages are contemporary. Some have been waiting more than a century. And on September 16, you get to hear them before you can hold the book ✨ Come hear the book before the book arrives. It’s Time: Notes from the End of Patience Zen Publishers | Scriptura Archive

In the UK men account for three out of every four suicides. Often I'v heard men say they don't have support available. I've certainly said it myself many times. We don't have the spaces to express our needs. Well we've got one here. So I will check daily at least for this month in case someone needs to use it. Because we don't need to carry everything on our own. Just a thought 🤔 Stay well all 🙏 ♥️