Poetry 2

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Poetry 2

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YOUR Poetry to the Survivors Art Foundation

Mandy Doerr
“Lady Fribble” suffers from Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Fibromyalgia,
and is a survivor of physical child abuse and neglect.

The Lost Child
By Mandy Doerr

A beautiful child stands in a field
With arms opened.
She doesn’t understand why she’s been left.
She just wants to be found and held closely.
She hides her tears inside,
Hoping she will be found.
Then, in the arms of love and safety,
She can set them free.
But no one comes……
The fear in her chest turns into an ache.
The ache deepens into pain.
The pain feels like a wedge in her chest.
She stands there waiting for the last blow
That will divide her assunder.
Yet she holds her arms out with childlike faith,
Hoping someone will come and remove the wedge,
Pick her up in their arms,
And with soft words,
Make her whole.
She doesn’t ask for much…

The Reject
By Mandy Doerr

I’m not wanted.
No one cares.
So I hide in the shadows
And seek comfort there.

Is it really comfort?
Can I even know
The difference between the release of pain
And the happiness I seek so?

They chastise me for not trying.
Then they tell me it won’t work.
They tell me I must be perfect
To make up for the fact I’m a jerk.

“They’d like you if you weren’t so smart.”
“If you’re so smart, why don’t you do better?”
Contrasting words cross my ears,
But the message is the same to the letter.

I can’t win this game.
I’m not sure I can ever break even.
Everyone else knows the rules
Which for me have no rhyme or reason.

I’m nothing but a burr
That sticks to their skin.
So they try to brush me away
And find a dark hole to leave me in.

If I stay in the hole,
Do you think they’d let me be?
Or will they not rest
Until the world is free of me?

The Chasm
By Mandy Doerr

I do not wish to walk this path.
The rocks are sharp and jagged,
The incline too steep, the soil too sandy,
And I am afraid of the bottom.

Please don’t make me go there alone
Give me a guide, a protector, a comforter…

But I had no guide
To lead me through the rocks.
No one protected me
From the cuts and bruises.
No comfort was given
To my wrenched and torn heart.

I only had a twisted, selfish being,
Who pushed me off the path
And into the rocks.
Only to jeered at my pain
And insist I was the one to blame.

The vultures knew the smell
Of a battered soul.
And circled above me
To mock my efforts at survival.

Sometimes, they would swoop down
And try to take bites of me,
As if death was only waiting
A few steps further.

And when I fell
The being and vultures would laugh
And tell me
That I was without worth.

When I fought back
They would throw stones and sand.
And then they would recite
All my failings as proof
Of their justifications.

They were happy
When I traveled downward,
But when I tried for the chasm’s rim
They would scramble to block the way.

Once, I saw the chasm’s floor.
The sight sickened me
And I bolted for the rim above me.

I choked on the dust that surrounded me.
I bled from the vultures claws.
I screamed from the jagged rocks.
I cried from the being’s blows.

Blindly, I went upward,
Franticly dislodging debris
In my panicked wake.

Then my hand felt grass,
I smelled flowers,
The dust settled,
And for one short moment,
I saw paradise.

The vultures gave a cry
And the being pulled me down,
But once you’ve seen paradise,
You fight to get it back.

I will outlive the vultures.
I will outwit the being.
I will return to the chasm’s rim,
And I will walk the fields
Of paradise.

(This one was written for my friend Starwing, another
abuse survivor.)

Let Us Play
by Mandy Doerr

Come to me, my little one,
And together we will play
On an emerald hill, under the apple tree,
Embraced by the summer’s day.

I can be an elephant
And you can be a mouse.
We shall have a lovely tea
In our flower petal house.

I will make the acorn tarts,
While you make pansy tea,
And we will talk of butterfly dreams
Under our tender apple tree.

If we ask them nicely–
Those pretty butterflies
May let us borrow their wings,
And teach us how to fly.

Then we can fly to the stars,
Play hide and seek with cotton clouds,
Drink from silver moonbeam pools,
And dare to speak our fears aloud.

Then let me hold you tight
And help you with your pain.
Nevermind the falling tears,
The world below needs rain.

Though my betrayal was not like yours,
It was a betrayal all the same.
I know the taste of abandonment.
I know the bitterness of shame.

I know the power of tenderness.
I’ve felt the need to heal.
The valleys you’ve walk are darker than mine,
But I know that they are truly real.

I wish to comfort you,
Though little comfort I may be.
For when I can comfort the child in you some,
I also give comfort to the child in me.

Copyright ©1998, Amanda D. Doerr

karmagrrl is a survivor
of incest, abuse and domestic violence. she is disabled with CFIDS (Chronic Fatigue
Immune Dysfunction Syndrome) and Fibromyalgia.

by karmagrrl

standing in the cold moon-ray of truth,
the little girl with the tattered soul
shatters the lies that bind her.

this is no dream
by karmagrrl

silently screaming
“shh, you’re just dreaming”
and no one believing

“no one will ever believe you”
he says over and over
like a demented mantra
a litany of lies
until my mind fills with self-doubt
and my soul fills with darkness

darkness and pain
he is in me again
and no where is sacred
my bitter tears streaming
“shh, you’re just dreaming”

i silently scream

this is no dream

[email protected]
“I’m a sexual abuse/incest survivor.
I have a web page relating my experience at http://www.asarian.org/~roselove
and a more general page at http://lunamorena.home.ml.or.”

By Sierra Kempster

For sale.
One more-than-slightly used memory.
I need to get rid of it.
I’ll give it to you for free.
Hell, I’ll even pay you to take it away.
Please take it away.
I don’t want it anymore.

“That which doesn’t kill us
Only makes us stronger.”
So why aren’t I wonderwoman?
Why isn’t she Supergirl?
Why are there so many of us
Hoping for the second option?


Our future is scarred
Adults do things to children
and adults don’t listen.
Children do things to children
and Adults don’t listen.
Adults do things to adults
and Adults don’t listen.
We need to listen.

A Child doesn’t imagine these Things
on her own.
Wither they happened
Or they were planted.
But it is not her fault.
She didn’t ask for it.
She didn’t want it.
It is never her fault.

Yet it still happens.
Our children are damaged.
Our adults are damaged.
Our future is damaged.

No one wishes for this
No one wants this
No one would choose this
No one would pretend this.

Listen to the Children
Listen to what they say
Listen to their cries, their pleas
For the tales they tell are the truth
And that truth is wrong.

Our world is on a one-way trip to Hell
And no one seems to want to stop it.
No one seems to want to back up.
Our children are dying inside
And no one will listen.

Instead of helping,
Things are made worse.
Children are told they’re wrong
And it’s their fault
And to keep the Pain inside

And then they have the nerve to wonder
Why he killed himself.
“He was such a nice boy,” they say.
“He had so much going for him.”
Yet they turned deaf when he cried for help.
Told him to cheer up
Things will get better.

They never do.

Until we listen
Things will never get better.

– 4/2/98 1:05pm

By Sierra Kempster

a scared little girl
try to hide
            in your arms
            and hope
pain will go away
i did long ago
a lifetime away
scared little girl
            running from
it will go away

-2/25/97, 4:39am

By Sierra Kempster

i dont want i dont want i dont want i dont want


go away go away go away go away go away

“Where are you, babe?”

im hiding and you wont find me wont wont wont

“I know you’re here somewhere.”

just go away leave me alone

“Ah, there you are.”

oh no not now i dont want it now i cant take
it now

“You know I only want to love you Sara.”

why am i nodding i shouldnt nod

“I know you like to feel good, Sara.”

but its wrong it hurts i know its wrong

“There, doesn’t that feel good?”


“You were a good girl today. Here, have some

i dont want your candy i want you to go away

“Now remember not to tell mommy. You remember
last time you told
her she hit you and said you shouldn’t say such things. She called
you a bad girl for doing it, didn’t she?”

yes she did

“So remember, just between us.”

just between us

“That’s a good girl.”

Sara watches him leave. She is crying. He was wrong,
it didn’t feel good, it HURT, but she could never say anything, only nod. And she
always cried when he left. He was right about mommy, though. Mommy didn’t believe
her when she told. She only hit her and told her not to be a tramp. What’s a tramp?
She doesn’t know what a tramp is.

She pulls her underpants up and crawls under the
covers and holds tightly to her teddy bear, still crying. She wants to die. She wishes
she was never born. She wants everything to go away.

Her 5th birthday is tomorrow and she knows it won’t
get any better.

Mark Kramer
[email protected]

Copyright (c) 1997 Mark Kramer
Dedicated to JoNella Marie Sabri, aka: geode

Just in the off-chance case, My
Lord, that You do not exist,
obedient (inconsolable, no doubt,) to such I shall defer.
Nevertheless, there is one soul for whom I must resist,
earnestly falling to my knees, beseeching: “Be, if just for her.”
lacking all, even to the cost of self, she gave her heart.
loving, kind, and loved, this tender soul from us did part,
and at the seams, held by her love, I come apart.

Motherly, she once took my hand to show me her safe haven,
accompanying me into the lion’s den, to make it my abode —
rewinged underneath the narrow Gate glides now the newborn raven.
ironically, the bravest of them all became my friend: geode;
even more astonishing than that, she could love a heart so craven.

Said it is, that for each star that leaves the sky, we get a wish.
although no sooner than my plea had formed, I knew it was too tall;
but have you know, that while against life’s standing dish,
really wishing on the fallen star, I wish it did not fall:
iceAngel, now playing in God’s attic, worked here her colormagic.

Copyright (c) 1997 Mark Kramer

When I my youth for love mistook,
Yet mind nor soul excuse did brook,
When deep my memory I rake,
It seems I made a grave mistake
In missing that not love alone I was to miss,
But for my love amiss, life from me would take
–And I annul the hopes which turned out fake–
The grasp, that not just its rod I’d have to kiss,
But verily, that life itself would be at stake.

Thus, because I then in secret took that solemn oath,
I now have love nor life, and I am missing both.
So, when finally my defeat has reached full growth,
Do not take it ill of me, when I entreat Thee nothing loath.

When Thou shalt resurrect which was my gist,
Should even vilest deeds adorn Thy List,
And each and all would brand me egoist,

I will ask but this:

Judge me then, ‘less the mistakes avail new bliss,
Not on what I took, my Lord, but for Thee did miss.

Kim Pearson
[email protected]
“I am a teacher of journalism, a woman disabled by arthritis, and a
survivor of physical and sexual abuse. ‘Memories’ (is) from my collection of poems
and lyrics, ‘Sanity is a *Good* Thing!’ Thank you for your consideration, and for
creating a site which promises to be powerful, educational, and affirming.”

Memories (upon hearing Eartha
Kitt describe her childhood)
10/24/97 ©1997 All rights reserved.

I’m seeking a language of forgiveness
I’m trying to rise above the mess
I’m trying to heal the wounds in my soul
I’ve burst open and I’m trying to grow.

There are truths that have to be told
In order for us to be whole and

are teaching me
and they are making me see
why I’ve never felt free.

As a child I only felt with your permission
In a posture of continual contrition
Your approval was my security
And I gave you all my loyalty.

You couldn t give what you didn’t have
And your emptiness has made us both sad

are teaching me
and they are making me see
what happened to me.

How do I explain that confusion and pain
that comes back every time that you cross my mind?
The names that you called me
The blows that your struck
Your litany of my faults
and my wasted luck

were confounded by moments of kindness
that led to emotional blindness.

are teaching me
and they are making me see
what I’m meant to be.

I know now that I’m not a heifer
I know now that I’m not a hussy
I know now that I’m a child of God
And my view of the world
Isn’t weird or odd

I know life isn’t always about hurting
I know now that I was always deserving

no longer rule me
And I’m beginning to see
What it’s like to be free.

Kathryn Soto
[email protected]

Warrior’s Cry!
By Katherine Soto

The call went through the land
For a few brave souls
Who would dare to remember
The suffering of what had gone before.
A few answered the call
And were led to a sacred place
Where they could pray
For their people
and for their very souls
Before they left on the journey.
The journey would be a rough one.
Taking them many miles
Through places they’d only heard about
From ancestors past.
These were brave warriors.

The places they went
Were full of hurt and anger
Filled with the bones of the long dead
The memories of the people were here
In these sacred places.
Good one and bad ones.
The warriors had come to confront
The memories that prevented
Their people from moving onward.

The memories gathered together
A formidable storm brewing.
Challenging the warriors
One by one to come into their midst.
Each warrior armed with only prayer
Stepped into the clouds.
And began to chant.

Warriors’ Cry
Hear me O spirits
Old memories that have gone past.
Hear that you may come
And be healed.
Share your pain with me
O Memories.
The vivid life you led
The pain you felt.
Let the healing begin.

The memories began to share
with the warrior’s
All of the pain and suffering
They had undergone.
Unnoticed and trapped they dragged
The People down.
And kept them from the beauty of life.
Imprisoned, breaking free now.
The memories accept their place.
They heal.

The warrior’s are successful.
The People move onward.
The cry of the Warrior
Is not to fight,
But to go to the aide of their People.
The warrior’s returned home
With the knowledge their people needed.
They healed the spirits
Of the Ones who had gone before.

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