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Writing poetry is helped by trauma

My writing poetry is helped by trauma.  I was a battered child and sexual abused by an older brother and mother is a drug-addicted and alcoholic home.

Physical therapy has unleashed memories and feelings that are unhealed from that time.  Much of the work around these trauma have helped me, but obviously, much remains.

I was incapacitated by these feelings for several days, but eased up on physical therapy and doing inner work and slept, helping the dragon back into his cave.

 

This is a poem that I wrote a few days ago when I could do little other:

I tell myself it didn’t happen.

But I want to take the kitchen knife

And carve a thousand wounds

              to let the light in and the blood out

              pooling on the kitchen floor.

              a silent witness.

 

My father would say I was being over dramatic:

             Calamity Jane, Sad Sack– other names, ridicule.

No use– memories that don’t count,

              Silent screams, flailing at ghosts who deny everything.

I am a mannequin whose strings were cut,

              No one admits anything.

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