Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nina 5d
I spent my entire life
Getting hurt

Being mistreated
Used

Pain?
What's that
I've gotten so used
To all the bruises
To all the bleedings
I've gotten used to the verbal abuse
Emotional pain
And mental effect

Nothing can hurt my anymore
In fact
I've found comfort in pain

So hurt me
Like how people hurt people
Hurt me
It does not matter anymore
I will still hurt myself
At the end of the day
Pain keeps be safe
Pain makes me sane
At night, as the cool breeze starts to kick in.
At night, when only the moon lay above,
When only the leaves are there to bounce off sound,
When only my brain creates the storms we lack in this desert.

I think of Autumn.
That one Autumn that changed it all.
A strange occult sort of feeling.
A sort of divine period, a different worshiping.

The period, when autumn leaves were grey,
Skies were orange, and clouds were starry.
When I worshiped a Muse as a deity.
A period that haunts me at night till thus day.

Like a ghost, taunting me, haunting me.
She visits on most nights, sometimes in a different skin.
Like a chameleon, shifting from one to another.
Different looks, but the same sapphire eyes.

What torture is this? If it is at all torture?
Is this my judgement? My atonement for the wrong I did? If I did any wrong...
My mind lingers to find the hidden message.
To decipher the code that are those kisses at night.
My mind lingers, by my hands write.

In a swift Autumn breeze, out of grey leaves.
Slithers a severed snake from Medusa's head.
One of many to haunt me every night.
A different hiss, a familiar kiss.
Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address
by Michael R. Burch

(for the victims and survivors of the Holocaust)

We saw their pictures:
tortured out of our imaginations
like golems.

We could not believe
in their frail extremities
or their gaunt faces,

pallid as our disbelief.
They are not
with us now ...

We have:
huddled them
into the backroomsofconscience,

consigned them
to the ovensofsilence,

buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.

We have
so little left
of them

now
to remind us ...

It was my honor to work with survivors of the Holocaust as we translated their poems and prose accounts into English as a way of preserving them and making them available to larger audiences. Unfortunately, time waits for no one and the Holocaust survivors I worked with are no longer with us. But their words and testimonies remain, if we will only take the time to read and consider them. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, victims, survivors, mass graves, pictures, images, tortured, frail, gaunt, skeletal, emaciated, thin, malnourished, golemic, horror, terror, inhumanity, madness, racism, antisemitism, slave labor, slavery, death camps, concentration camps, gas chambers, ethnic cleansing, genocide, memory, remembrance, memorial, tribute
I have been through hell, beyond what anyone will truly understand.
There’s emotional damage that’s been done as consequence for having such an open and trusting heart.
I’ve fallen too fast, I’ve loved too easily, and I’ve trusted too many.
I am damaged and broken in ways that will never be mended.
I will never be who others want me to be because that is all that I’ve ever wanted to be.
My friends need me to be their crutch, my parents need me to be their perfectly well-rounded daughter, and the man I’m falling for,
well...
I just want to give him the best of me.
How does one pick and choose who to be for the ones they love, when regardless, the love almost always remains unreciprocated?
I would love to be their perfect daughter, but that’s not who I am.
I would love to be the perfect friend who picks up every call, but for reasons that I cannot control, that cannot be me.
I would love to be cared for, protected, and eventually loved unconditionally by the man who’s almost too perfect to be real.
But, I can't have the one person that makes me truly happy because everything else remains in my way.
I've been damaged,
broken,
bruised,
and used.
All I want is happiness, yet she shall remain a stranger to me until I find my escape from the overwhelming demands of everyone that I care for.
What a match, oh what a pair,
my broken china doll and I.
Abandoned in dark corners, where no-one ever sees.
Cracks and broken pieces lay scattered on the floor
of a once cherished child and a once treasured toy.
Now you may never see it, but we weep, both her and I
for discarded things have feelings
if not always naked to the eye.
My broken china doll and me
don't understand what we have done.
For objects once dressed up in pretty things
became fragmented, tortured lumps.
It's not always understood,
why we throw away all broken things,
because sometimes they're most beautiful
if we only ever were to look within.
Now we may be broken and discarded,
never to be repaired again
but with a little helping hand, we could learn to grow.
For through our cracks the sunlight could seep,
making us feel whole again.
But my broken china doll and I
maybe too far gone to ever be saved.
Poetress2 Apr 2019
"Come to me,
my little one;
We're going to have,
alot of fun.
~
I'll make this playtime,
a pleasure for you;
So come on in,
take off your shoes."
~
Just what they meant,
I did not know;
As I entered my bedroom,
of pink and gold.
~
My little hands,
began to sweat;
Down my back,
shivers were sent.
~
They laid me on,
my Minny Mouse sheets;
I was not happy,
I was not pleased.
~
They tortured me,
that's how it felt;
And then they told me,
not to tell.
~
They walked away,
bearing a smile;
They left behind,
a tortured child.
Screaming-Tides Mar 2019
The pain seeps deep into my bones
The sharp nails scratch at my mind
Taunting me
Torturing me
I don’t even understand what I can’t escape
My soul screams
Who have I become?
Why am I here?
Am I truly real?
Or is this all just an illusion
I will never be able to awaken from
I shake and try to piece things together
But everytime my mind sinks in too deep, my lungs begin to suffocate
And my hands start to sweat
How I hate being left to myself, it seems I can never be alone to think
I’m exhausted
Make. It. Stop.
I’m not sure if this even makes sense to anyone, but right now this makes perfect sense to me.
Kelly Reagan Nov 2018
Who’s soul is left for your to break
The 2 you crushed for your own sake
Away from you, away from me.
peace and space they are free

You tore him down piece by piece
You ripped to shreds all his needs
Meek and small but bold and alive
Now she is gone, do you cry ?

I bet you do when others see
Looking for any ounce of pity
Searching out your next attack
Who’s left the break in your sack

It won’t be me, I’ve learned to soon
You dead to me, soulless lagoon
When you finally depart this place
You existence will dissipate

We won’t worry about seeing you again
Without a soul you will never begin
To the sociopath who has hurt so many people in this world
Freijah Sel Yna Oct 2018
She's like a glass
with a broken body,
chipped heart by every events
she had gone through.
Cracked, damaged and flawed.
Got hurt trying to fix things,
and bleed trying hold
herself together.
One more gentle touch
to make sure how she was doing?
She'll be shattered
into pieces without knowing.
Next page