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lisagrace Jul 19
The girl was only 7,
When he came into the picture
Bribery by way of sweets
"Now I have her,"
He must have thought,
This was no mere caper
She wonders, now,
if he meant it like that.
But at 7, sugar meant yes

By age 10 her father had left
Gone to another land,
Fortune upon his lips
She cried for days,
She felt alone -
Bereft

The girl was only 11,
when she first thought
"What if I went?"
When even escaping
to magic-filled hardcovers
could not ease her descent

School bullies were not all
That pulled her
Towards the yawning void,
On eggshells she walked
Around him,
Being careful not to flip
His switch
He'll twitch -
See red
It filled her with dread
Better to stay tight lipped -
Better to be
His pet

12 to 14
A good girl
She must be -
But with the exception
Of fake notes
to skip P.E
Her nose buried in books,
Sitting in the nook
Of her mind,
Still dazzled by magic
Adventure
And love,
A soirée
with the feykind

She is 17. Not quite a girl,
He sees this -
A pat on the ***
The not-quite-girl whirls back
"I'm not comfortable with that, "
He looks at her then,
And almost....scoffs
"What? It's just a ****."

Her spine stiffens—
She does not laugh.

And even before this -
Hands on her waist
A hand, resting on her collarbone
Fingers tucked underneath
The collar of her shirt
She moves it away -
He moves it back
There are fingers on her sternum now,
Nearly touching her breast

And then he touched her *******

She was 20. Not a girl anymore
Well, barely.
Legally speaking, she was
Though,
She still felt like the girl
With everything
that had happened;
The tears,
The fear,
The manipulation,
The disrespect,
And apology
After apathetic apology,
She felt stunted
Broken
Her mind, filled with the echoes of
"Cannot" and "Will not."
Biting words, not shouted but sown,
percolated through her every silence.

She had said the words,
not knowing why
Regret blossomed instantaneously
She had given him permission…
but why would he bite?

23 years of age
She works, and she plays
Oh, she plays!
Controller in hand
The Sims is the plan -
A boring play-style, really,
Fulfilling her what if's
Of marital bliss,
What a twist
Cascades of pixelated children
"I think I'll name her
Quellcrist."

They met in her family's
Restaurant kitchen
She, an apprentice chef
She, an absolute gem
She, who would become
The squish

Kindness and honesty
Go such a long way,
It's a pity
It did not happen sooner
The first time
She called her a friend,
She had beamed -
Her eyes truly did
sparkle that day
The decision was made:
This is her person
No spell so emphatic,
No truth quite as static
Because friendship
Truly is magic

24 and a few more
The woman has grown -
Even flown,
In her new normal
Gatherings of friends
Music and dancing
A strange, drunken costume party
At last!
A soirée in the real -
A gentle joy she dared to steal

The woman and the girl
are one in the same
She finds joy in wall rainbows
And loves the rain
She makes crockery
Imprinted with dinosaurs,
She likes shopping at thrift stores
For clothing that screams whimsy -
Beaded necklaces,
dark velvet
And cute embroidery
Videogames
With quests primeval,
And moral threads
That aren’t so medieval
They whisper,
“There’s more to the journey
than simply good vs evil.”

The void still exists
That gaping abyss
Cold as glass,
But weightless -
It does not pull now
She can stare all she likes now
It's all but a fascinating sight
There is no question
Whether to stay,
Or to go
11 was such a long time ago

28 is here
He is still there -
Not far,
But not near
He calls and whistles
Down the street
But she's slipped her collar
There will be no retreat
She is no pet
A stray, one would say
An escapee
From his menagerie

The "favourite" she may have been,
But she had simply
Survived the regime
Note: This poem explores themes of childhood trauma, emotional abuse, and ****** assault. It follows a personal journey through memory, pain, and eventual healing. Please read with care.
mae Jun 29
i walk into the clinic
like it’s a gas station off Route 66,
neon buzzing, hearts tired.
my body full of roadmaps & warning signs —
but no one reads the signs,
no one hears the engine knock.
they call it stress, call it nerves, call it nothing,
but I’ve been breaking down in slow motion since the Eisenhower years.
R Spade Jun 16
Does my clarinet  
blame herself  
when she  

screeches?  

I asked her —  
careful  
not to press  
the wrong buttons.  

She hummed along,  
nodded  
like a good girl.  

(𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?)

I’m the one  
who blows  
down her throat,  
pressing keys  
until she forgets  
how to breathe.  

Her voice cracked —  
guilt hung in the air  
like smoke.  

"𝘪 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯,"
she whispered.  
"𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦."

I strike her notes harder.  
She chokes out bits,  
broken pieces  
that only make me angrier.  

Your wheezing is because  
you’re fragile.  
Cheap.  
Not because of me.  

(...𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?)

"𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶,"
she sobbed.  

And I  
almost told her —  
𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝗱𝗼.

But the truth  
lodged in my throat,  
behind the breath  
that made her scream.
It was real.
I can feel it.
Like fingers wrapping
Around my wrist.
Wispy and delicate...
Or rough and jagged?

You tell me it never happened.
But why is my pillow stained with my tears?

Because I know my tears were real.
But to you...
They were just phantom tears.
I don't know either.
Maybe I am drifting
Maybe I did something wrong
Maybe I'm losing my mind,
my sanity, my worth, my sense.
Or maybe I opened my eyes
And saw the thorns on your roses
through bleeding eyes.
Sometimes people play with our emotions like toys.
Ellie Hoovs May 23
His words twisted the corners
so right curved into left,
and truth bent sideways,
making me believe
I was going the wrong way.
Hedgerows grew tall,
and thick with argument,
until they swallowed the gas lampposts,
turning pathways into shadows.
I walked blind and barefoot
through the thick of it,
earth damp, worn thin as my breath.
Was I supposed to find the center?
Was there ever an exit?
There was no map,
just whispers in the leaves,
and his voice,
ringing in my ears,
a compass spinning
from asking too many questions,
and doubt,
folded into my own pocket.
My soul became blistered
from chasing after ghosts of
wanted apologies,
so I kissed the ivy,
hoping the walls would soften.
but they spiraled,
a boa constrictor handcuffing my legs.
I took a sharp turn,
desperate,
crawling on my belly,
a soldier avoiding fire,
fingertips clawing into the red clay,
and found the center,
where a red lip-sticked mirror stood,
half cracked, words still whole:
"you're not the one who's lost"
F Elliot Apr 18

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

"Hello,  Poetry..
Pleased to meet you.."

https://youtu.be/GgnClrx8N2k?si=R-UojalDEuiWj2zv

xo
Mariah Apr 15
Can't you see me?
Can't you see?
How its supposed to be
You had to teach me

A burdensome chore
You chose to ignore
So you left me alone
Wondering why I did so on my own

Now I know nothing
I'm always running
Under the pressure
I'm crumbling

The unformed person
Hiding behind the curtain
Ashamed of being the burden

Now you can't see-
but when you think of me
I'm gone and you're still  
Hating me  

How I'm ought to be
It isn't clear to me
And I'm sure you'd happily agree
I am lost at sea

You were so headstrong
About knowing all along
I was unworthy and ugly, loud and wrong
Now I suffer
Nowhere to belong


You can no longer tell me to go
This is my home
Piece by piece, blood and bone
I built it on my own  

You know of my unbearable pain
Trying to live life your way
And you know I couldn't stay
When you were the one sending me away

I don't want to grow old
With my life feeling cold
All thrown away
Feeling myself decay

Its not my responsibility
Your incivility
Never a child to you,
But a void of hostility

Your high horse far away from me
And I know,
that even though
I can't see you looking down
It is a certainty

Creative were your reasons
To deny the diseases
That plagued our house of stalled seasons
So look away, so you don't need to believe in
The winter that we lived in

Deny, deny, deny
The distance between you and I
Came from you, and your willingness to
Misidentify
"This child is not mine,
It Chooses to defy,
There is Rot inside."
And I can never be satisfied
With your answers when I ask why

"You, you, you-
You chose to do-
Everything bad that happened to you."

How could I
When I was the child in knots
And you were the tie

If I am a Bad Egg-
and I am Rotten -
Then you were the Broken,
Beaten Down fridge that I was in
For my mother.
I never wished it of you, but I will die someday, just like you want me to.
And maybe then, you could finally be proud.
Or at least, you could finally stop haunting me.
Bile Addict
The truth comes out like stomach acid
burning the whole way up.
Needed and sometimes even wanted.
None the less still painful.
Still burning in your throat and in my ears.
A part of me feels like you hope this is my final straw and that I will finally throw in the towel.
A part of me was hoping that too, my Sweet.
Instead I take that straw to my nose
I use it to do a big ol line of the vile truth
while I push past the pain of the drip and the foul taste of your words
I try not to let you see the salty tears forming in my eyes.
I fold the towel you wish I would throw,
as perfect as I can
I walk to the closet that has the least amount of skeletons to put it away.
I don't have enough spine to declutter closets today.
Today Im no better than you.
I lie to myself and convince myself you could someday care, so that I can stomach
the urge I have to lie next to you.
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