Ptsd poetry anyone?

Letting the Stones Go

I live in a secret world
A world in which I have to hide
Hide from what? I ask myself
The answer unknown

I have nothing to fear inside
But there is pain,
A pain of remembering
A pain of knowing
How young I was

In time I'll learn to
Embrace that pain
So I can relive that pain
And understand that pain

I'll love that pain
That pain is a part of me
It's at the heart of me
But I am not my pain
I am not my trauma

I am...
What I make of my trauma
What I take from my trauma
I am me
I am one
Really sorry I'm so late at responding......your final stanza says it all....what we make and what we take from our trauma....is so true. We are not our trauma....
 
Since I can't post any pictures I thought I would upload a poem. I don't consider myself a very good writer and its depressing but it's meant to convey how God sees us.

The undesirables, diamonds in the rough, the world has rejected you

Eyes blinded in darkness, they can’t see, your beauty in full view

With cruel callousness walls of ignorance take shape

Labeled and alone, forced to wander this desert landscape

Gossip and Slander, turn smiles in to sneers

This pain you’ve endured for so many years

Ignored and forgotten, a diamond in the rough

Maybe someday they’ll know soon enough

Marked as a scapegoat, pierced with many arrows

And no one cares about your tears and sorrows

Used and thrown away for another’s selfish gain

And only Jesus knows your heart and pain

In the quicksand of their minds forgotten are your good deeds

Only remembered are mistakes and misdeeds

Wandering in a wilderness of desolation and loneliness

Looking for the light of God to guide you out of the darkness

You wonder what it’s like to experience his infinite love

While praying and hoping to the Lord above

You are a diamond in the rough, a priceless treasure,

Meant to shine, unique from all the fluff, nothing can measure
Just reread this. This is very good. Could be published.
 
I am awake but my brain has half drifted
to another place
I see a bed and no room
An aliens hand on my arm
Hear a voice in my head
Stop stop
The image fades away
My body reacts
It makes no sense
I go to sleep
I see me on a bed
A man is there though I don't see him
He tries kissing me
So I move away
He is behind me
His trousers pulled down
It hurts and his friends are watching
I wake up it makes no sense
Asleep again I see two guys
I know they're bad I try to run
They catch me they knock me down
They are on top it hurts and it
Makes No sense
I am awake
In a dream I am at home
The alien sits next to me
A label is tucked into the back of my pj's
His hand doesn't stop
Moving further down
Fingers inside of me
I'm scared and uncomfortable
It makes no sense
Then i am once again asleep
Taken by a family I have never seen
In a room I don't know
A man in the family
It isn't very clear
Walking to another room now
To see the presents he bought
Four small play tents for me and his kids
Standing I hold a Teddy that is out of my sight
I try to act normal I feel so sad
My down there hurts
It makes no sense
I wake up
Now I'm still sad
I feel like a child
I feel unsafe
My brain feels stuck in the dream
It makes no sense
I'm scared of the next time
Of what I will see
And whether it will start to make more sense
 
I found some old poetry I wrote when I was so young and had no idea about PTSD and my memories were deeply repressed, locked away safe until I was strong enough to face them. I am writing them here to bear witness to that younger me. I hear her. I am here. She is safe now.

Untitled
Sphere of clear dysphonia
Pressing into the heart of my mind
Impending doom
Begin—
shell-shocked therapy
waves upon waves
rebirth, rekindling
primal scream
Zooming screamingly into consciousness
Bloodshot thirst rips out the hope for eternity
Zoning and droning upon trepidation
swarming, yes, heavily swarming
into a baby’s mouth
Creation triumphs
Always
Always creation
Pain into joy into pain into joy
Sound therapy
screaming baby
hologram
wasps bringing pain and relief

I didn’t understand what this meant when I wrote it but I understand it perfectly now.
 
I was feeling hopeful when I wrote this one, which makes me proud of younger me. Dated 9-29-03

When they make want to you cry
Please remember… I’m alive!
If the dove no more can fly
Just remember… I’m alive!
When they’re gone with no goodbye
Still inside… I am alive!
If they say, “No need to try,”
On this day… I am alive!
When their love to you denied
I am here… I am alive!
Sometimes they make you want to die
Yet at this moment… I’m alive!
Alive Alive Alive Alive!
I am a miracle… I am alive!
 
There was an old lady with PTSD.
She lived on a boat in the Caspian sea.
When they came to enquire on their old escapee,
She said, "Leave me alone, for I'm late for my tea.
Every day I have tea at a quarter past three.
There is only enough cream and sugar for me."
They went on their way and they ended their spree,
And they wrote a report, claiming A, B, C and D!
But never again did they cast out to sea
To pester that b* with her nice cup of tea! ☺️
 
algae in a stream
swimming and straining
against the swirling current
slippery strands
green glistening growing things
pushing and swimming like serpents
swaying rhythm
pendulous flow
the rhythm of water
almost a song
trying to swim but rooted in muck
creating beauty in a foul, cloudy bath
all day all night
swaying to the rhythm
emerald dreadlocks
furry worms
harmonious flow
this way and that
so soft and delicate
like the hair of Ophelia
drowning, drowning, drowning
 
In this untitled poem I was able to talk through metaphor about the weariness of living with PTSD when I had no awareness of it at all.

That movement has caught my eye before
Maybe yours too?
When you stop to rest
Maybe on a park bench
You settle into your seat
And your mind starts to float
Then from the corner of your eye
Your gaze is pulled down
To the stones and sand near your feet
To the last helpless struggle
Of a dying honeybee

She lies supine on her back
Flailing her eyelash legs in protest
To her situation
Curling her abdomen up
Twisting her head and thorax
Trying to grasp a grain of sand
Using a rear leg for leverage
Constant struggle
And if she should be so lucky
as to roll upright
She begins to crawl, exhausted
and inevitably, like a drunk,
falls over again, and
starts the fight again.

Perhaps after one hour
or maybe ten hours
—if no one steps on her—
she dies, starving and alone,
she curls her legs across
her abdomen, in that coffin pose
and kicks no more.
 
The art of slowly dying

You do not fight to keep alive
You die
You ease into decay
Autumn leaves, the soil
The natural decay of life
It's gonna be a long winter
But at least I can see my blurry reflection
In the ice covering my soul
Spring will come, I will rise
Some day I will fly
Like a butterfly
I will cocoon and shelter up for winter
Protect me from harm
Some day
Some day
I will fly
 
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