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We believe in the power of creativity as a tool for communication and evoking meaningful change. Below, you'll find the unfiltered artistic voices of our members.

This is our gallery, and we're striving to ensure it's an authentic space; therefore, please be aware that you will see artwork that you may find distressing or triggering.

Voices Gallery

Red Pills

I was born mute.

When my words did not work, my body did the talking for me.
I could never speak the words that could express my anguish,
but I learnt very young that my body could express what I could not.

I spent many Mondays sitting in the doctor's chair. I always let my mum do the talking.
 

“The pain in Lola’s stomach seems to be getting worse.”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?”
 

No number could ever explain the reason why my stomach felt raw with dread.
When the doctors explained that my abdominal affliction was not a physical one,
I would tell myself it was a cancer, and it may as well be, for it wasn’t long until stomach would

gnaw itself empty and my frame waste away.
 

And as the tumour grew larger, I would tear at my body until my hands were stained with my

own guilt.

Kneeling on the blood stained floor was me pleading.

I asked for redemption from white coated gods when I believed my own self hatred was a sin.

They prescribed oblivion only when I begged for it.

In this world, redemption seems to come in the form of neatly pressed pills.
And when the medication was in its greatest numbers,

A new illness was born.

Losing myself to screaming numbness

I found a voice in the darkest parts of my heart that could do nothing but yell and kick and

scream like a bullied child.

Though mute, the cracking of my personality , twisted and contorted by an array of pills, could

not fathom a single word that did not blame.

Sloth, hate and panic dissolved my frontal lobe and was nothing but relentless to the people I

loved.

Easily melded into apathy , the atrocities lay upon me founded no more than a few more pills in
my cup. Tears did not fall from my eyes and the chaos surrounded me was so familiar it was

almost boring.
 

I, Lola, at 20 years old had consigned to oblivion.
I had signed the papers, and condemned my life for what it is:
A pattern of instability, violence towards myself and a resignation of perpetrators.

Even with the anesthetic to my emotions, sporadic glimmers of hope would dance across my

eye line every now and then,

If I wasn’t looking for them I would’ve missed them;
the more I managed to grasp the more they spread
Until I was holding so many I realised my own life was in my hands

My grave was not nearly yet dug

So I threw down my shovel and began looking for more.
Defying the white coated Gods, I started to taper off the pills in my cup until the excitement

The felicity


The love


The grief


The anger


The passion


The fear


They all came back.

I felt them all at once as if I were cannonballing into a swimming pool.

I welcomed them


I shunned them


Eventually I accepted them.


All highs I welcomed with open arms,
and the lows I held in a deep embrace.

I found a deep comfort in the fact that my lows were a side effect of grief for those years lost

But turning my face to the future years excited me
The day I could see clearly was the day I could finally speak


And no God with a clipboard and pen will silence my voice again.

- Lola Cavill

She Whispers

 

She whispers silence.

A noiseless melody teeters and crescendos

without sound.

In and

out.

 

My breath in a pause holds so much unsaid.

Yet inside.

Yet inside the mountains of words

Tumble as weeds do in the Sahara.

A constant whir of whirlwind

that demolishes the art of the world to the ground.

 

She whispers.

But golden silence turns bronze when oxidised.

So a non-uttered mutter

Is better off unsaid.

 

Better off staying in the unknown cold world,

Than to be broken, bent or bruised.

 

- Lyra Williams

The Walls

I look around,

But no one is there.

 

A whispering echo bounces off my cheeks,

And refracts from the sinister ice walls,

Back into my ears once again.

A constant rhythmic drip,

To the metronome of my blood,

In sync as I pace,

One foot at a time

Into a condensed space of nothingness.

Pitch darkness.

A low settled dreariness.

 

- Lyra Williams

Lets-go-home-final.jpg

Flash- A poem written in Thames unit /Huntercombe Maidenhead

You come at me with hell.

The devil greets my stomach

and chants a haunting melody.

She smiles.

A grin deadlier than sorrow.

She always smiles.

Heaving a ship with my own body weight.

Pulling my molar with tweezers.

Yank.

The devil she pours through me like divine tainted water.

They storm in armed and ready.

A troop against a halo - we scream battle cries.

Apparently without war, there is no peace.

Or so it goes.

 

- Lyra Williams

Clarity

Sometimes I wake up in a start

Unpicking in unconscious form

Bleeding into the morning

I look at her lying next to me

Nose peeking above the sheets

Eyes scrunched

Dreaming.

 

My feet find some resemblance of carpet

It must be nice to know yourself enough

to know your own feet

I think.

I must leave, surely, if I’m to survive

They say your body scans and sends signals for 80% of all waking ( & sleeping) hours.

Some say it’s all in your head

But I want to run

Whilst my mind screams bloody murder

And I can’t move.

 

I recall the woman who is qualified

To tell me to listen to my body,

Try, at least, to scratch against the grain or

In other words

Ground yourself.

 

So I leave

At 6am, I lock the door behind me

Headphones in hand

Leaving her to unpick

in her own unconscious form

And climb. 

 

I reach the summit

Or at least a point above ground

And finally I can see

Specks of people, miles of earth

Wind coursing through me

Houses, other lives, others existing, living,

maybe crying too

I allow my ears sound other than

the same repetitive song, over and over

I can hear birds

All around me are birds, singing.

 

My eyes are wet

as if, now, all of it

All the insidious, hateful things

that have lived in me and my body,

Keeping me

Are seen as losses,

not a death sentence

But something in context

Something I have lived

but something I might accept

With all its terror

and all its clarity.

- Anonymous

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