Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

  Panic Logic My body feeling something my brain can’t explain (compute) My body feeling something my brain can’t explain (compute). Such as a panic attack day. Throat hard to swallow. Feeling I’ve forgotten something. Air sucked out of the house this morning — tried to regulate. Construction Constricted Constriction Chest — strange feeling. Trying to calm. Trying to breathe without thought, without thinking my natural rhythm. Natural nature — trees, forest, breathing, birds, flowers, sky, sunshine. Distraction, reaction — it’s still the same. Ear pods in. Podcast — trying to calm, break, re check, reboot this cycle. It’s not changing the feeling. I’m trying to forget it. Hormones Surging Tipping Dipping My body rhythm is wrong — it’s trying to find its beat. My heartbeat.

Auntie. First crush. First beauty. First awe. 1. Cottage Cheese & Tesco Survival (circa 1981–1982) My age: 8–9 Belinda’s age: 16–17 Texture: early 80's Reading, Adam Ant on 7 inch, UB40 rising  I had an auntie called Belinda. “Bel lin da unfurled off my tongue like beauty.” She was sixteen or seventeen then — still practically a girl — but already moving through the world like someone who had lived three lives. Big curls in her hair, jeans pulled tight, striped cardigan, Adam Ant’s Stand and Deliver still echoing from 1981. She played Bob Marley’s One Love, the beginning of my lifelong love for him and then UB40. She was a young mum — far too young — and my first memory of that sits in Reading town centre, at The Butt Centre. The hexagon wall, the place where the deadbeats gathered. Tesco then was small, the first food supermarket, with those blue‑white‑red bags — the sea‑through butcher‑bag type. She had a baby in the pram, which I pushed, proud and imp...

  Filling Your Vessel - (Detachment / Armour / Vessels) The more you become, the more you fill your vessel with the world — with worldly things, with what your friends tell you, your family tells you, the world tells you. Your heart becomes armour plated. You think the more you fill your vessel, the more you shine your armour — but the thing that always gets me is this: the people you love the most know how to shoot straight through that armour. Therapists are said to be vessels — vessels filled with our stories: our inner child, our inappropriate adult, our journey. We fill these vessels. But if they become everyone’s vessel — to empty, to fill, to contain, to hold — do they become just empty bottles, warriors who fill with our words and help keep the lid on? How can anyone be an infinite container to fill? I wonder about this. I ask the question: Does your heart become armour plated to stay untarnished by what affects you ...

Spill Out  (reflection and advice) Be the cup half full because brimming leaves you no space for broken. We don’t need to spill out, speak out, cheer lead. We need calm, quiet, reflection. And in the words of Philippa Perry: one‑word answers for children. No fact, no fiction — one word. Their little brains can’t take your story, your spill, your teach. One word each answers. (With exceptions, maybe two words required). Book Reference - "One Word Answers " The Book You |Wish Your Parents Had Read, author yes you guessed it PP. Vessel Collection   - Do Not Fill to the Top Poems and life lessons about overflow, overwhelm, and the beauty of leaving room. A collection for anyone who has ever mistaken “full” for “fine.” Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel needs breathing space, and that half empty isn’t...

  Vessel Collection Motherhood & Boundaries   (VERSION TWO) I am that person — the one who filled my children’s vessels. When theirs emptied, I filled them. A bit more, a top up, just enough to spill over the edge. And now, as adults, they spill out again — a heavy stone dropping in from above, and I rush in with positivity, with fixing, with rescuing, with saving — and the water just sloshes over the sides. I need to stop being that person. Let their water spill out. Let their vessels be filled by themselves. Let them be them. Do not fill anyone’s vessel. Stop. Stop filling everyone’s vessel. Don’t be the jug of water. Be the empty cup. And here’s the irony — I’ve always said “ a cup half empty.” But maybe half empty is the only way to leave room to be topped up. Not constantly full. If my love keeps filling their vessels, how will they ever learn to love themselves? How will they ever grow the confidence I have...

  Vessel Collection Motherhood & Boundaries   (VERSION ONE) I am that person — the one who filled my children’s vessels. When theirs emptied, I filled them. A bit more, a top up, just enough to spill over the edge. Did I cause the mental health issues? Was I too much? Did I do enough? Did my diagnosed ND effect my children. And now, as adults, they spill out again — a heavy stone dropping in from above, and I rush in with positivity, with fixing, with rescuing, with saving — and the water just sloshes over the sides. I need to stop being that person. Let their water spill out. Let their vessels be filled by themselves. Let them be them. Do not fill anyone’s vessel. Stop. Stop filling everyone’s vessel. Don’t be the jug of water. Be the empty cup. And here’s the irony — I’ve always said “ a cup half empty.” But maybe half empty is the only way to leave room to be topped up. Not constantly full. If my love keeps filling their vessels, how will they ever lea...

  QUESTION “If you are a vessel to fill, will you become armour‑plated ?" Vessel Collection   - Do Not Fill to the Top Poems and life lessons about overflow, overwhelm, and the beauty of leaving room. A collection for anyone who has ever mistaken “full” for “fine.” Blurb A collection of poems, metaphors, and lived wisdom about being a vessel in the world — not overflowing, not performing fullness, but learning the art of capacity. These pieces explore the truth that every vessel needs breathing space, and that half empty isn’t lack; it’s room to live.