Humanity Thru Art: The Blog

"Art is the mirror we hold up to society. Dare to look into it."

Could I bleed out the sadness
If I slit my wrists?
I need a happiness
But no one will donate….

On the verge of madness
As I sit here alone.
My heart aches-
But Poetry
Is all I have to offer.

PSL 3-11-16red-nightmare-1439708

Warning Label by Adam Stuart Littman

My thoughts are mean

When I look around me I feel

I am not who I was a few days ago
A few hours ago
That self would
Advise this self to lock himself in a room somewhere

I should not be in public right now
Not driving a car
Which I know I’m driving too fast
But I do it anyway
I don’t recognize my impulses
My thoughts are foreign

I know this is all a misfire of brain chemistry but when I think of myself as sick
I am led down a path that frightens me
Self loathing
Self recrimination
A madness beyond my control
To stop
And beyond my fortitude
To accept

Now I get angry
Red fire nuclear angry
At my insurance company for charging so much for the med of choice.
At the overreaching physician and his short shrift change in prescription that has me in hell
At myself for not wielding my trust more wisely

Remain stoic as tears drip slowly onto the child seat of the shopping cart.

Say nothing
Surely the strangers will remain silent as they change the treasure map to avoid whatever aisle I’m on.

Acknowledge nothing
They are too far away to see the shaking
Too isolated to feel the nearly electric seething that seems to start in the soul and begs for your body to contain it.
And the nausea

That motherfucker!

This is not what fine looks like

When will this pass
This has to pass
Has to wear off eventually
Doesn’t it?

What if this is as good as it gets from here on out

No. I will not go down that road either
I do everything I can to slam down the barriers on causeways
Too unthinkable to traverse
Too unthinkable for now. But what if it doesn’t wear off?

What if it gets worse?
The morning didn’t start off like this
The afternoon brought good news
Yet here I am
Walking in circles to spare the ones I care about.
To shield them from what. I am today.

Trying to walk off the prescription like an accidental poison.
Now I understand the words on the bottle.
Now I am become the warning on the Prozac label.

ASL 1/14

A Writers Sex Act

My body – covered in letters and phrases –
Your hands – molding them into poetry.
The story is conceived. Will it be born or aborted?
Written or discarded? Will it be READ?

Feb 17, 2016 8:46 PM
All Rights Reserved


I have warmed the night
With thoughts of our love.
They echo in my beating heart
And wrap me in the warmth
That is you.

I have illuminated the night
With memories of your eyes
Reaching into my hardened soul
Giving it life and love
That is you.

I have endured the night
Singing melodies of our joy
Weaving lifetimes into one life
Endless songs of loving hearts
Just for us.

I have welcomed the dawn
Dancing on the rays of sunlight
Bringing me closer to your arms
And a day full of love
Just for us.

I have warmed the night.

Nita Oard
May 9, 2015
All rights reserved

He’s Dangerous

He’s dated the pretty girls, the popular girls,
Yet he’s eyeing you like you are desired.
He smiles, he winks, he teases you with words
And touches that make you blush. You
Feel special, maybe for the first time.
Venerable, you let down your guard.
Clinging to that first experience in his arms
You give him control. He walks away laughing.
Leaving you with the promise that he’ll be back.
And he is; when it’s convenient for him.

By PSLaRue

All Rights Reserved

It’s not too late!

Hey Y’all! It’s that month, February. For some it means love for others, loneliness!
Why does it mean to you? Have a poem about February? It’s not too late to be featured on our blog. Send questions or submissions to

Vietnam Revisited

John O’Neill is a valued member of Humanity Thru Art and a veteran of the Vietnam War. Below is one of his poems.

When I was younger
I played war often
And at lunch
Mother invited the dead and dying
On both sides
Home for soup and sandwiches
When I was older I played for keeps.
And often ate

John Michael O’Neill

As The Snowflakes Fell


A familiar mountain stood before me.
It beckoned me to spend the day
Surrounded by its beauty.
A quiet voice asked me to stay
As the snowflakes fell.

The evergreens stood tall above me.
They fragrance the air with pine
And guided my long journey
A higher, steeped path to climb
As the snowflakes fell.

The snow tumbled from the cloudy sky
It kissed my red and frosty cheeks
While placing diamond in my hair.
The soft, white silence made me weak
As the snowflakes fell.

A white cloaked mountain gleamed before me.
It challenged me to embrace the day
Surrounded by its danger.
I’ve been here before, I could not stay
Because the snowflakes fell.

Nita Oard
December 8, 2015.
Revised, December 22, 2015
All rights reserved.

Immersion of Elizabeth Bathory










An Iron Maiden drains the moisture of life
Red corpuscles drip from its silver faucet.
Virginal bodies, limp and white, surround
An ivory tub, now full of blood;

Long ago Elizabeth was penalized.
Her Personal Fountain of Youth involved
Sacrifice. Now social media brings
Suicidal volunteers. She smiles:

Her wrinkled flesh shows the truth of advanced age.
She submerges and soaks: absorbing youth
From the red sea, the perfect serial
Assassin dries with a cotton towel.

~PSLaRue 10-5-2015

The Tragic News


If looks could kill I’d stare into a mirror;
But it’s not that easy.
Yet another palm reader predicts a long life;
I weep at the tragic news.

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