Best Trauma Poems
not like a Christian, but like a victim.
I prayed like a woman afraid,
afraid I was the sacrifice to his vice.
I would lie awake then. I lie awake now
as my heartbeat hammers
my breastbone like a blacksmith,
I remember… I remember
in a pale cringe, I sniffled. My blood polka-dotted
a white floor that smeared an inkblot of me.
A split lip, half-wit tamed by the maim of his fist.
His madman’s magma buried me,
a lingual lava flow that hardened as it cooled.
My sense of self turned to obsidian. I fractured.
Tears slashed like shards. I bled self-esteem.
He preyed on me
as I prayed to him like he was a god.
Please forgive me! It’s all my fault! On my knees
I was dead to myself.
He split my skin. Stripped me to my bones.
His vulture needs I remember.
My emotional remains he savored,
flavored with backhands and vodka bottle bottoms.
I seethed in sour juices of moonshine abuses.
I counted moons and contusions. I counted
each stitch needled through my skin.
My heart quilted with clichés;
I love you. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
I seized my breath so's not to moan or implode.
As I exhale I remember
I fantasized of blasting him to the belly of Hell
when I’d usher vengeance inside our back door.
Reaper’s reckoning when this battered forget-me-not
shattered his bones with buck-shot scatter. Damn!
I’d have paid the devil for a jail cell to be free.
A candlelight-night bruised by cruiser lights:
I remember I prayed like a victim to 911.
Oh God! Please God! Help me! He's gonna kill me!
I pressed bleeding heart flowers between diary pages,
diary pages without words cried to be heard.
Concussion dreams panic my pulse, dilate my eyes!
Oh, dreamless sleep, grant me deceased peace.
Until night hags of nightmares die
I will remember...
"War and Peace in the Days of Love’s Retribution"
All is fair
in Love and War
they say
Lost are the
gambling angels
who walk tight ropes
from the point
where time departed
the jewel stolen from her crown
sacrificed for
something better
a child’s happiness
another fallen
goddess
tripping between
the cracks
pinned to a wall
in a sunless place
where light tries
but fails dismally to get in
suspended heart’s arrow
caught forever bleeding
in betrayal’s
sticky web
Failure’s warrior
wanting a sword for
cutting tongues
War and Peace
lost and found
unconditional
In the time
of unjust justice
follows freedom
wearing a new light
darkly burning in
the time of Love’s retribution
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
gvlm
"Hurts Like Hell" / Fluerie
https://youtu.be/Uil0L-0F4no
"“Once I was brave
enough
to leave home,
I discovered
splendid parts of me
I had no clue existed.
I, then,
realized
where they came from
and hurried home.”
let me be a wanderlust vixen in the vortex ~
a voltage liquified to the upbeat vibrato,
versing vehemently in venom-glazed grief,
and rehearsing your criminalism
like a serial liar ~
because I am too voiceless
to command the Monarch of mercury
to vindict the sojourners
that lure me to their blind holes,
and vandalise the chromatic criticisms
that clench me in their cyanide claws,
through the cracks
branching in the demonised billboard …
Oh scorching serpent,
slithering with velvet-tongued torment,
never leave me tethered
between the lips of loneliness ~
like a leaflet tucked on
the seaglass screen,
screaming for those stygian seashells
to lock my secrets behind
the bars of misplaced passwords,
because, this pulse of paranoia
is too pure to palpitate
in the pixels of poisoned prayers ~
and there is no anecdote
that annihilates the anxious
acronyms of abandonment,
streaming through the realms
of disposed dimensions.
There are no strings attached
that hum in hexed hoaxes
through the violin vendetta
strumming an acapella ~
through the lusty noise
of monsters longing for
the loss of my sacred insanity …
perhaps, the voice in my head
is an ode to the orchestrating shadows,
too mindless to manipulate ~
scripted in secluse
replaying the ruins,
paused in the prison
a sketch of sleep in splitting senses …
as bipolar ballads
tame their schizophrenic strokes ~
when the Maestro of moon
mediates a megalomaniac
sonnet of venting slaves,
in the muted matriarchy of mantras
that keep repenting rage,
in the impulsive incandescence
of my icy azure ink ~
refusing the warmth
of vulnerable sagas
that ache to heal me
and release the
insomniac coldness ~
blanketed with the sparks
of murky mermaid stars …
I own this label ~
the name of a lunar lunatic,
and this is a war,
between the sphinx of sabotage
and the never-ending nocturns ,
as, I remain weapon-less
like a cardinal iris,
rewriting the rules
of unshakable madness
in your maniac meanderings,
ineffable ~ invisible ~ incurable
an impostrous
i n v a d e r …
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …
Those pillars supposed to hold us
fell and crippled us instead
those hands that were made to hold us
strangled our tender necks
the years meant to be our happiest
every day filled with dread
if to be young is very heaven
then truly we were robbed
Shall I allow my heart to break its fences
and profusely bare its senses
as my mind feels no fighting chances
the soul divulges the pain’s incenses
trauma bleeds through my pen with no pretences.
*****
Shall I allow my heart to shed its shield
and had its very pulses peeled
with a mind of no power to wield
so majestic the soul to blows yield
trauma bleeds through my pen unable to be sealed.
*****
Shall I allow my words to portray a huge affliction
and conceal each ache with no slight friction
as my pen takes great care with poetic diction
to produce an artistic painting of wonderful depiction
trauma bleeds through my pen in fact and fiction.
,A Knock at the Door,
,*This is a dark poem, but it is a true story about how I was raped by a former friend on my birthday.,
As dusk sweeps away the afternoon sun
The skies will grow gradually dark
Perhaps some glittery stars strewn about
And the moonlight’s reliable spark
For most, this cycle of day and night seems
Too mundane to evoke much alarm
However, a few who have suffered the night
Fear darkness sides nicely with harm
When trauma comes knocking, no matter how wise
A victim may open the door
For caution and innocence cannot protect
Ill-intent from a friend known before
The strength of his arms as he pushes you down
Leaving bruises on your pale, white skin
Tearing your bottoms just wide enough
To bully room for an unwelcome in
“No” floats meaningless, as do your cries
As he enters you roughly instead
Pleas fall on deaf ears as he grunts and moans
You weep and imagine you’re dead
When he’s done, you are useless, he stands
You pray now he’ll just go away
As he walks out into the darkness
One last sting when he moans, “Happy birthday.”
--Meghan C. Hutchings
I’m on autopilot.
Surrounded by an unfamiliar climate.
I’m on the outside looking in.
Looking down at blurry skin.
It’s possible I could be dead.
I'm Just a small person in my head.
I have Dreams
I have Goals
I have a Life
I have a Cause
I am Here for a Reason
I fear my life will be taken away
By a careless man
I fear I'll become part of the 97% too soon
I fear I might die with my legs open and a gun to my head
I fear I might die from the loud echoing sound of a bullet
From the gun in the Careless Man's Hand
I fear my innocence will be stolen from me
I fear that if I don't die from this I'll have a lifetime of Trauma
But it's time to realize
That you're much stronger than you think
You're Growing
You're Glowing
You're greenest of leaves on that same Tree
Your Ancestors Planted
But still you fear...
I want Prosperity, I want to grow
I want to Breathe, I want to Glow
Because I haven't been touched
I think Justice has been served
Because I haven't been touched
I don't understand their Pain
And still you fear
This will all end in vain
But only if you knew
Those who don't get punished in this life
Will in the next
She longs to find a Place
In which she can finally breathe
Even if she roams around naked
She won't be hurt
She won't fear
That her life will be taken away by
The Careless Man
~ Fiyameta
……Somewhere a lone survivor of a plane crash
A man of sound and reason
standing tall and proud.
But a voice of lies and madness
whispering words of doubt.
His mind a fortress sturdy
no shadows in the crowd.
But a path of doom and darkness
waiting to break out.
Delusions like a serpent,
coiling in his brain,
Paranoia like a venom,
oozing from his core.
Twisting truth and logic,
driving him insane.
The world a hostile army,
waging endless war.
Dissociation like a vise,
squeezing his soul tight,
A mirror of identity,
shattered into shards.
Lost within the maze,
his selfhood out of sight.
The pieces of his being,
scattered near and far.
Psychosis like a demon,
dancing in his mind,
The music of madness,
playing its eerie song.
Illusions like a spider,
weaving webs to bind.
As his grip on sanity,
was slowly being wronged.
Not working…..
He found a radio, a possible voice of hope and light.
…..Working
Then a change of course,
a turn of fate’s design,
A mind once plunged in madness,
now rising to the fight.
From blackness to brightness,
a force of hope divine.
An ascent from affliction,
a story of great might.
As his grip on sanity was
slowly being restored,
Illusions like a spider
weaving webs to break.
The music of madness
playing its final chord.
Psychosis like a demon
dancing in his wake.
The pieces of his being
scattered near and far,
Lost within the maze his
selfhood comes to light.
A mirror of identity
shattered into stars.
Dissociation like a vise
squeezing his soul bright.
The world a hostile army
waging endless peace.
Twisting truth and logic
driving him to sane.
Paranoia like a venom
oozing from his fleece.
Delusions like a serpent
coiling in his mane.
But a path of doom and darkness
waiting to fade out.
His mind a fortress sturdy
no shadows in the crowd.
But a voice of lies and madness
whispering words of doubt?
A man of sound and reason standing tall and proud?
A lone survivor of a plane crash……
Past
deserves a hushed funeral for the memories scarred
from hands, unforgotten words, screams echoed
the times no one wants to relive
somehow you manage to give those life
everytime something isnt the way you dreamed of it to be
back then you managed to keep a grip on what you wanted to happen
Present
doing just fine
at night being able close eyes without
dreading the buzzing of an alarm going off
seeing the sun wake up doesnt bring tears of another day in hell
checking for more messages of…
“this is wrong” “havent changed a bit”
here comes the part where you like to..
“we love you” “were always here”
because when silence is given to you
you know youre wrong
when will you admit it?
Lately
its been quiet.
this kind of silence doesnt seem suffocate
being able to breathe
with no ache
Future
whispers say
youre currently gripped on “I told you so”
so ready to release that on this silence
you look
you see your younger self again
hate to tell you but
its a onesided mirror
youre staring at your past
the perk to being on the other side of the glass..
is choosing to be able to look back or not
dont look back
walked away instead
future is a funny thing
cant control everything
still wondering when youll learn that
a future without you seems fine
maybe even borderline perfect
its still present
and one of us is still drowning in the past
one of us pushes past and lives in present
creating a future
Life screams and tempos tosses
that you walk through hell gates and bosses.
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,
while the hell in your life last longer.
It is not until when you ran through the rain
and know the strife of the pain,
that you can look back and honestly say
My God gave me just enough strength that day.
You had the strength that took you through,
on the other side you are stronger than you knew.
Trauma can throw its blunt ugly force,
and from its course you want to divorce.
You could have been dead on that fateful night
the devil in your destruction found delight.
But on the other side you stand
And from victory you reach out your hand.
The trauma made a mockery of your state
Your victory it could not debate.
The hell of the night drags longer,
but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
TRAUMA
Twist the knife,
Riddled with her innocence,
Against her sweet nectar.
Untimely budding,
Mastered by machination, unimaginable
Aberration of rose’s robbery ~ thorns remain intact.
9/13/2021
In the dark wastelands
of my traumas, I see ahead
a path that leads to my
healing—
and in the far distance
of this upward path, I see
mountains of growth
awaiting my daring climb.
11.12.22
"Trauma In my Mother's House"
Some mornings came whispering in my mother's ears the torment of being a lady;
It explained to her how by the kitchen knife
she was meant to breathe only from a man’s pocket
She was told that her tears undermine society
& her body worth not even a cent from a man’s wallet,
Because she is the object that cannot fit even in an empty set
the door of my mother's head was opened by another strange voice,
informing her that cooking is the degree she has earned naturally
& that anything above it, is a sin beyond reality
Situation has made her to see this world as a cooking kitchen;
The aches from there is the comfort air she inhales without regretting
In my mother's house,
she is strong like the wind that comes before rainfall,
Because she's the eagle that can withstand any downfall
Her power is the milk that's capable of breastfeeding this lazy world
& babysit any depression that wants to overcome her,
Because her current life is the hell she is defeating very well.
Poet:
© Cheto