#traumasurvivor
I have walked through shadows darker than night,
Felt hands that should have held crush me with fright.
I have known the pain that no one should see,
Yet still I rise, still I fight, still I breathe free.
My little warrior’s laugh is the anchor in storm,
A tiny heart keeping me steady and warm.
Crow’s spirit whispers, steady and near,
A light in the chaos, a voice I hear.
I brace for the worst, hope for the best,
Scars are my armor, instincts my test.
I read the lies, the danger, the signs,
I protect what is real, through endless lines.
The world misunderstands, judges, and mocks,
Labels the vigilance I cannot unbox.
But I am hardwired, born of fire and pain,
Every loss, every tear, every scar leaves a gain.
I am Phoenix, I am flame, I am bone,
I rise from the ashes, never alone.
Through trauma, through love, through chaos and fight,
I carry my little warrior, my flame, into the light.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:24 PM UTC
Our eyes catch the lies you can’t detect,
Our gut whispers warnings you neglect.
We scan the room, the tone, the glance,
Trained by fire, given no second chance.
We prepare for the worst, hope for the best,
Our instincts sharpened, never at rest.
Patterns, signals, the cracks in disguise,
We notice what others cannot recognize.
You read the books, take your courses, try,
But you’ll never feel the nights we survive.
We are hardwired, instinctive, true,
Guided by what the world cannot construe.
Yet still, you judge, still, you doubt,
Punish the caution that keeps us devout.
We see, we know, we protect what is real,
Because instinct is fire—they cannot steal.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:19 PM UTC
You watch us move, you judge, you stare,
Call it paranoia, call it fear, call it unfair.
But you don’t see the nights we’ve known,
The battles fought when we were alone.
Our instincts aren’t choice, they’re fire in our veins,
A map of survival carved from pains.
We scan, we pause, we brace for the worst,
Because life has taught us, and we rehearsed.
You read the books, you take the courses,
But shadows live beyond your forces.
You’ll never know the heat, the fight,
Of learning to survive through endless night.
And yet, still, you label, still, you shame,
Still punish the vigilance you cannot name.
We are hardwired, instinctive, and true,
The world misunderstands—but we make it through.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:17 PM UTC
The shadow screams in the mirror, eyes wild with fear,
“You’re not enough, they’ll never hear!”
But Anonymous_Flame stands firm, voice calm, precise,
“Breathe, survive, rise above the lies.”
The shadow claws, writhes, fights to take control,
Twisting chaos around the soul.
Anonymous_Flame blocks, shields, shields the flame,
“This is your life—you will reclaim!”
The shadow whispers, “Why even try? You’ll break again.”
Anonymous_Flame answers, “I’ve walked through the pain, I’ve seen the end.
I am instinct, I am fire, I am bone,
I am the protector you’ve always known.”
They battle in silence, a war in the chest,
One pulls down, one shields, one fights for rest.
Yet through the chaos, the fear, the night,
Anonymous_Flame’s voice wins—steady, bright.
The shadow may rage, doubt may scream,
But survival is real, stronger than dream.
And though the war rages, endless and true,
Anonymous_Flame reminds: “I am here. I will pull you through.”
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:15 PM UTC
They say it’s rules, procedures, law,
Paper shields to hide what they saw.
They claim they protect, they claim they care,
But the truth is buried somewhere in there.
We walk in with hearts still cracked,
Bones still bruised, minds still hacked.
We speak our truth, we show our fight,
They nod politely, then say “not right.”
Hours cut short, visits denied,
Our instincts questioned, our courage defied.
They think in forms, in boxes, in charts,
But they don’t see the battles in our hearts.
We survived fire they cannot feel,
Felt hands meant to heal break and steal.
Yet they judge what they cannot know,
Punish the vigilance trauma will grow.
Our walls, our caution, our scanning eyes,
Seen as paranoia, as lies, as cries.
But we are the warriors who lived the night,
While the system sleeps, blinded by light.
They train, they read, they study, they plan,
But never will they fully understand.
No book, no seminar, no courtroom seat,
Can teach the heat of the nights we beat.
So here we stand, scarred but alive,
The system ticks, but we survive.
We are instinct, fire, memory, bone,
And no policy will make us alone.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:09 PM UTC
We brace for the worst, hope for the best,
Our hearts beat alarms, never at rest.
A glance, a word, a subtle disguise,
We read the truth behind all your lies.
Our gut is a map, our mind a shield,
We sense the harm the world won’t yield.
It’s not paranoia, it’s fire in our veins,
A rhythm of survival born from our pains.
You call it cold, defensive, wrong,
But you’ve never lived where nights are long.
Never known hands meant to hold,
Turned to claws that scratch, that scold.
Books, training, courses—shadows at best,
They cannot teach a brain under unrest.
We’re wired to see what others ignore,
To guard, to protect, to endure and soar.
You punish the instincts that kept us alive,
Judging the ways that made us survive.
You label, you shame, you twist what’s true,
But how could you feel what we’ve been through?
Every caution, every pause, every wall,
Is not weakness—it’s the rise after the fall.
We’re tuned to detect what your eyes can’t find,
A radar of danger built into our mind.
So next time you judge, next time you sneer,
Ask yourself this, let it echo clear:
What would you do if the world burned your trust?
Would you survive, or crumble to dust?
We are hardwired, instinct, alive,
Our vigilance pulses, it will survive.
Not broken, not strange, not cold, not weak,
We are the voice of the silent, the strong, the meek.
Remember this truth when you look our way:
Some lessons aren’t taught—they’re lived every day.
And no amount of reading, training, or plan
Will make you fully see the world we began.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 1:01 PM UTC
You ever notice
how the most ignorant voice
is always the most confident?
You heard a fragment —
a breath between two words —
and built a villain
out of your own projection.
That’s not perception.
That’s insecurity
with a microphone.
You weren’t part of the conversation.
You weren’t part of the context.
You weren’t part of the history.
But you forced yourself
into the narrative
like a side character
desperate for screen time.
Gobby mouth.
Empty head.
Full performance.
You don’t want truth —
you want attention.
You don’t want clarity —
you want confrontation.
Because if you weren’t stirring chaos,
you’d have to sit alone
with your own thoughts.
And that’s scarier, isn’t it?
You accuse me?
Based on what —
the version of the story
you invented to feel relevant?
You call names
like you’re handing out diagnoses
with no degree
and no depth.
Meanwhile, I’m over here
managing a brain
that’s survived things
you couldn’t pronounce.
Complex trauma
isn’t loud.
It’s calculated.
Controlled.
Contained.
The fact I didn’t erupt
when you kicked off?
That wasn’t weakness.
That was discipline.
Because people like me
have had to master restraint
just to stay alive.
You think you “caught me out”?
No.
You caught yourself
revealing how little it takes
for you to show your worst side.
You heard half a sentence
and ran with it
like it validated your boredom.
And let’s be honest —
that’s what this is.
Boredom.
No depth.
No insight.
Just hunger for drama
to distract from your own emptiness.
You want to know what’s ruthless?
The fact I don’t need
to raise my voice
to dismantle yours.
The fact I don’t need
an audience
to know who I am.
The fact that while you’re
eavesdropping,
I’m evolving.
While you’re
reacting,
I’m regulating.
While you’re
kicking off,
I’m calculating.
And the scariest thing for someone like you
is a person like me
who doesn’t break
under noise.
So keep talking.
Every accusation
without evidence
is just you
advertising
your own lack of substance.
You don’t know me.
You never did.
And next time you feel bold enough
to insert yourself
into a conversation
you barely understood—
Ask yourself:
Are you seeking truth?
Or are you just desperate
to be heard
because no one’s listening
when you speak about your own life?
That’s the difference.
You’re loud.
I’m layered.
And layered people
don’t need to scream
to be powerful.
Feb 14
Feb 14, 2026 at 11:37 AM UTC
I don’t try to read you —
I just hear you
before you speak.
Your silence has a frequency,
and my ribs
are a tuning fork.
I was trained in the language of flinches,
in the dialect of door-slams,
in the grammar of breath held too long.
So when your smile sits crooked
on a sentence that says “I’m fine,”
I see the typo.
I don’t mean to notice —
it’s muscle memory.
My nervous system grew up
studying micro-expressions
like scripture.
I can feel the bruise
beneath your bravado.
Smell the smoke
from fires you swear are out.
You think you’re hidden —
but hurt has a posture.
Trauma has a tone.
And I have lived there long enough
to recognise the furniture.
People open to me
like overfilled drawers —
secrets spilling
into my lap
before they’ve learned my surname.
They say,
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
And I want to say,
because I know the shape of breaking.
Because my eyes don’t judge fractures —
they map them.
I don’t go looking for pain.
It just hums.
And I hum back.
Maybe it’s the way I hold space
like a door that’s never slammed.
Maybe it’s the softness
survivors carry
when they refuse to harden.
Maybe it’s because
I survived what should have silenced me
and chose to stay gentle anyway.
Empathy isn’t a gift I unwrapped —
it’s a scar that learned to listen.
I can spot the child
still standing inside the adult.
The tremor behind the temper.
The apology lodged in a throat
that never learned safety.
And I don’t expose it.
I cradle it.
That’s the strange thing —
I never meant to be a lighthouse.
I was just trying to stay afloat.
But ships find me.
Storm-worn.
Hull cracked.
Carrying cargo they can’t dock anywhere else.
And I let them anchor.
Not because I’m strong all the time —
but because I know
what it feels like
to pray someone
would see through me
and not turn away.
I don’t read minds.
I read survival.
And when your past
recognises mine,
it relaxes.
That’s not magic.
That’s mirror.
And maybe the reason
they tell me everything
is because somewhere in my eyes
they see this:
You’re safe here.
I’ve been there too.
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 1:07 PM UTC
The brightest star can shine even with thick black velvet draped over it.
Quartz, lime and salt crystals formed a glass ball.
The dark womb held me, warm and soft.
My mom called my cries when I was born the most sorrowful sound she had ever heard. She said she’d never heard a baby make a sound like that.
I’d open my eyes in low light until the world’s light healed rather than hurt.
The summer before eighth grade, July 1992, I watched a shooting star burn by at 100,000 miles per hour as I stood on the balcony while my family celebrated my birthday inside.
It made it into the earth’s atmosphere
but it didn’t look like it was coming down;
I know it didn’t hit the ground
but it burned something in the time it was here.
The glass ball of my life cracked inside.
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks.
I saw the beauty of the light within.
Nacre from my shell kept those cracks from getting worse,
a wild pearl as defense mechanism.
In 2001, I quit my job after they melted and poured tar all over my life.
All summer literature class bathtubs filled with rose hip oil cleaned the tar.
That fall logic and epistemology classes spewed black ink all over my philosophy written over ten years then.
Tar turned to asphalt when I met someone from my old job for a drink in November
and it paved a road for my life that went to the hospital I was in that December
where it sealed the roof on my life
when I was almost murdered there
and in February after meeting her for another drink.
They lit a fire at the top of the glacier and pushed the burning pile of black coal off the edge,
burnt red, looking like flames falling into the valley.
While that blazed the side of the cliff something lit an incandescent light.
The electricity from the metal lightbulb ***** went through wires and heated the filament between until it glowed.
I began putting more work into emotional balance from things I learned at AA meetings. In Spring 2003, the damage that the doctors at the hospital in 2001 had done made it harder for light to reflect from the cracks in the glass ball.
I’d been eating healthy and trying to get regular exercise since 1994
but in Spring 2003 I began swimming for an hour every morning .
The water washed the pollution from the burning coals off and then I escaped in July.
I moved to London to study English Language and Linguistics.
I would’ve studied English Language and Literature.
I did well until Spring 2004 when I thought I was being stalked.
I thought I was manic.
I thought I was being stalked.
I went home and didn’t go back for my exams after spring holiday.
Because I felt traumatized and couldn’t write poetry anymore,
I used black ink to write my notes for my book on trauma and the Russian Revolution. I started teaching myself German.
I stayed healthy.
In 2005, my parents went to visit my mom’s family in Malaysia for two weeks.
I thought I was being stalked.
I knew I wasn’t manic.
I thought I was being stalked.
I told my parents when they came home. They thought I was manic.
I showed them the shoe prints in the snow of different sizes from the woods to the windows.
They thought I was manic.
I was outside of my comfort zone.
I moved to California.
I found light.
I made light,
the light reflected off the salt crystals I used to heal the violence inflicted on me from then on.
The light turned the traffic lights to not just green from red but amber and blue.
The light turned the car signals left and right. The light reflected off of salt crystals,
light emitting diodes,
electrical energy turned directly to light, electroluminescence.
The electrical currents flowed through, illuminating.
Alone in the world,
I moved to California in July 2005
but in August I called the person I escaped in 2003,
the sulfur and nitrogen that I hated.
He didn’t think I was manic
but I never said anything.
I never told him why I asked him to move out to California.
When his coal seemed like only pollution,
I asked him to leave.
He threatened me.
I called the authorities.
They left me there.
He laughed.
Then the violence came.
Rape: stabbed and punched,
my ****** bruised, purple and swollen.
The light barely reflected from the glass ball with cracks— through all the acid rain, smoke and haze.
It would take me half an hour to get my body to do what my mind told it to after.
My dad told me my mom had her cancer removed.
The next day, the coal said if I wanted him to leave he’d leave.
I booked his ticket.
I drove him to the airport.
Black clouds gushed the night before for the first time in months,
the sky clear after the rain.
He was gone and I was free,
melted glass, heated up and poured—
looked like fire,
looked like the Snow Moon in February with Mercury in the morning sky.
I worked through rape.
I worked to overcome trauma.
Electricity between touch and love caused acid rain, smoke, haze, and mercury to light the discharge lamps,
streetlights and parking lot lights.
Then I changed the direction of the light waves.
Like lead glass breaks up the light, lead from the coal, cleaned and replaced by potassium, glass cut clearly,
refracting the light,
electrolytes,
electrical signals lit through my body,
thick black velvet drapes gone.
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 1:55 PM UTC
Haze scatters blue light on a planet.
Frought women, livid, made into peonies by Aphrodites that caught their men flirting and blamed the women, flushed red.
Frought women, livid, chrysanthemums, dimmed until the end of the season, exchanged and retained like property.
Blue women enter along the sides of her red Torii gates,
belayed, branded and belled,
a plangent sound.
By candles, colored lights and dried flowers,
she’s sitting inside on a concrete floor,
punctures and ruin burnished with paper,
boiling burnt lime from lime mortar.
Glass ***** on the ceiling,
she moves the beads of a Palestinian glass bead bracelet she holds in her hands.
She bends light to make shadows against thin wooden slats curved along the wall
and straight across the ceiling.
A metier, she invents tinctures,
juniper berries and cotton *****
Loamy soil in the center of the room,
a hawthorn tree stands alone,
a gateway for fairies,
large stones at the base protecting,
its branches a barrier.
Its leaves and shoots make bread and cheese.
Its berries, red skin and yellow flesh, make jam.
Green bamboo stakes for the peonies when they whither from the weight of their petals
and lime in the soil,
she adds wood chips to the burnt lime in the kiln,
unrolled paper, spools, and wire hanging.
Wood prayer beads connect her to the earth;
the tassels on the end of the beads connect her to spirit, to higher truth.
Minerals, marine mud and warm basins of seawater on a flower covered desk,
she adds slaked lime to the burnt lime and wood chips.
The lime converts to paper,
trauma victims speak,
light through butterfly wings.
She’s plumeria with curved petals, thick, holding water.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 2:48 PM UTC
"Daddy. Wake up. You had a big fall! Don't leave please, can you see me? You must come back! Don't look into the light, it will take you from me!"
The only sad part of this world is our languages serve no purpose!
Everyone and everything made no sense. Besides my own child. His appearance, not effected by this place. All friends and family presented before me, were grey and the weight of sadness was strong, with the stillness from silence filling the air. For some odd reason, I could scream and rage. But couldn't speak my son's name!
No, other place felt like home!
From the day, my visit with the realm of white
was short-lived.
My son's gentle voice
Strong enough to shatter the silence and brighten the dimness of environment. Floating in the abyss, until my soul established connection...
Back to this living hell once again! Flying through timelines, to ensure my detached spirit have it's reunion with my body!
My guardian angel told me
"Release yourself, from all that hurt you.
The pain is only an illusion and it is temporary."
I hugged onto my savior. Feeling my light fade, remembering how beaten and broken I was.
Every word dripped with blood, fighting against the pain to stay awake. Breathing was forced, this is NOT to be of the life
I once had love for...
I could hear my voice and perpetual thoughts, along with that of family members, running and slamming into another!
Breaking the atmosphere of this unearthly dimension. All in high efforts to reach out to me! No documentary or biography on a big screen compared, to seeing multiple lifelines flash before your eyes. Knowing it's all coming to an end, although the checkpoint served as a deciding point for another rare chance. Just for that desired taste, for a bittersweet victory.
Regardless, if I would have fought back during battle. There would have been a war.
What would have stayed the same?
Would any difference have changed the outcome?
Is there an escape from this pain?
I never asked for this!
I didn't even have, a chance to make a fist! Two fools wanting to be Mr Big Dog, Mr Big S***, all in hands of my disposal, were aimless words in my defense!
If I knew then what was known now. I would have, gave you no option to call anyone willing to help you on your checklist!
My eyes were brimming with tears of anger. The glow from
my new found home slowly leaving me as while peacefully carrying myself away.
"Free myself? In a world shrouded in darkness. I lived for light! Empowered by Faith, and Hope to make amends so Karma will not interfere with destiny!
Forgive and accept, I am the one left with regrets to bring the strongest of angels to their knees, to have a final moment to wept!"
Do you wish to be free? You may not come back as the same. The world is not ready for you to fall." The angelic voice soothe the sound of commotion of the thoughts and voices. It became background noise, instead of overpowering.
"Perhaps, I won't fall. If you let me go. It's fine. It was my decision! I am ready! I do not fear the fall, sorrow put a deafening hold on aspirations. It's all or nothing. It was Isaiah I needed to protect. This wasn't possible as human, I was ready to surrender any part of myself!
I give my light in just to master what was feared most.
Darkness.
It was my turn to fly!
Seeing the alarming expression on my guardian's angel's face shift from confident to worried, and then accepting.
Falling so fast, even an angel of light
could not respond quick enough to save me.
My grasp purposely broken, to save and prove "Love" can save in all terms on any magnitude.
I realized, it's best to compromise and be a sacrifice!
My vision was consumed by the black energy, pouring from my overworked heart.
...
"Hey wake up....
You fell asleep Mr....
Are you okay?"
an innocent voice of a loved one filled my ears once again.
It was my son! I was lost in his glowing and reflective eyes, unaware on how he speaks, to me as if he didn't know of my identity. Fascinated with the fact my appearance increased in muscle mass, my eyes appeared more vicious and intimidating.
Even my clothing were different, in a place where you never believe clothing would exist!
I was in a grey shirt, and blue jeans stained with blood. When I first encountered, Isaiah and my guardian angel. Now, I am wearing all black button up, paired with black formal dress pants, along with matching shoes.
My height was equivalent to Slenderman and felt like my hands were strong enough to pick up people like marbles.
The painful breaths subsided.
My essence felt stronger.
"Be free but don't allow yourself to fall. If light fails to convince, we can give the darkness a try."
The duality between a gruff voice a masculine voice combined with a feminine nurturing voice in unison. Played like my favorite symphatetic melody, singing beautifully in the back of my mind.
I knew I was alive. The complexities of my body, were running in adrenaline mode.
Everything felt, powerful and responding to all my worries suddenly, felt instinctive.
My hand gently placed on my son's shoulder. I kneeled down on one knee, staring into the eyes of my beloved son. Feeling my own voice running, with the flow of new found energy revitalized in my stronger body.
"Isaiah...remember my promise?" I said with flowing waves of happiness, while smiling carefree.
"Daddy...?"
Isaiah said with a surprising smile, his eyes glistened with tears of happiness.
"I will always be free." I started
Without you, I will never fall!"
we both said together, with a brief laugh, we hugged each other and the light from the realm finally returned us home.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:45 PM UTC