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Kagami Oct 2013
+I hate you.... You got us stuck in hell with all of these blank white walls...

Respond please?
-I want to escape.
+I know... But it's your fault in the first place.
-I don't like it here.

It is lifeless and cold.
+Well... DUH!!!!!
-why do you always treat me like that?
+no reason.
- you don't like me...
+ I know.
- you're mad at me
+ I know.
- why? What do you know?
+ I know.
- you know what?!
+ you.

- do you know if I can escape?
+ no.
- but...
+ No.
- I just...
+ NO!!!
- no?
+ NO NO NO NO
                                 NO NO NO

                                                       NO NO NO NO NO NO NO

- Okay! I get it...
+ yes.
- will you be my friend?
+ I already am.
- since when?
+ always. I am a part of you. Inside of you. I am your only friend.
- not true.
+ yes. I am a part of you. Your only TRUE friend.
- not true. You're not my friend!
+ THEN DIE!!!
                  You can escape that way. And I will follow you wherever you go, but at least you will be free from this prison.
Free write. No clue where it came from.
Komo Rebi Jul 2014
MPD
it's a different life,
another layer, color, feeling, thoughts.
over me and in, around and more,
dreams and present alike it haunts.

festering like a fever, sometimes,
incredulous annoying joy.
Astrid Ember Aug 2015
We wished that 2 am
could last forever.
Where we can walk
barefoot to get coffee,
and you spoke to me
in the only language
you thought I understood.

Your words spilled
out of your mouth
in the form of
poetry.
Metaphors saying
that you could be my
******.

We were lost in a different
universe where I didn't know
where I was
but I knew where your
lips were.
But then again we were also
high on acid, and
various other
illegal substances.

But the substance hidden
in your saliva got me
higher than any strain
of marijuana could.

When he tells me that
you lie about everything
and live to get ******
up, I tell him I know.
You live to **** with my
head and you whisper lies
as many times as you whisper
you want me.

He asks why I enjoy
your company.
I can't let him know
that it's because some
part of my brain
thinks that the dimension
of us happening ever again
will slip back open
and we can slide back into
each other.

You are a lie more intricate
than the northern lights.
But there are flaws and
ridges so deep
in you, I could
call you the
grand canyon.
Because you told me once
that you had lung
cancer.
I said that the
tumors had
expanded and popped.
and it explains
why they suddenly
disappeared
and a new disorder
formed
in your spine.
You blew out smoke
much longer than
you blew intoxicating
promises into my ear.
Said you had MPD
and I was the opposite
of your medicine.
Said every word you
spoke took
a pebble out of
of the hole inside you.

I told you that I lived
in fantasies in my head
and you said I dropped
an atomic bomb inside you.
That I was the bane of your
existence and when you got hung
up on what addictions do to you,
I whispered that they destroy everything.
You stopped in the street and
stared at me.

Then it was the kind
of coffee I got.
I got vanilla cupcake
and you teased me on how
I want what's normal.
How I am liquid and I
fit to whatever container
I am put in.
But baby you see, when you
asked for an explanation
you didn't want the one I had.
I went to tell you that
my mind isn't stable
and I'm never in one place,
so when I kiss you,
it's hidden in a garden
in my mind and I'm not sure
it really happened.

Yesterday you apologized.
Said I don't really love
him and you don't love your
partner.
I kissed you with my thumb
in the way,
and I swore if I could
of just moved it
the world would shift upside
down and I would
be tripping with you
at 2 am again.

When we sat on my porch,
as the sun came up,
you said you wish it could of
lasted forever.
But the thing with forever
is I can't do commitment.

Maybe it's best that 2 am
is just another dimension
where people walk around bare
foot
blowing clouds of lust
into each others mouths
poetry falling off my fingers
like a hang nail,
hurts just a bit
to get that deep in my words
that they don't even flow right.

Maybe it's best that we only
exist where we float in our
personality disorders.
We are more than one person,
souls caught in our head
fighting to take control,
seeing a weakness and lunging,
and you are my weakness.
Explains why when I'm with
you I forget that he exists,
while when I'm in my head
he is my everything.
You...
You said I've never been addicted
to you, and if I gave you the
chance my life would change.
But darling I had one
taste and I'm hooked.

From the first night that
we got so high
hair was pulled and mouths
were stuffed
I was... I was stuck.
And I have been stuck on you
ever since.
We exist in a universe
that only the dark allows.
No eyes to pry.

2 am is where
we aren't in a relationship.
2 am is where I
can kiss you
and you pull me away
saying that won't
stop your question of
why I do it?
What do I feel?

What I feel is 2 am
tugging at my knees
pulling me down,
begging it not to become 6 am.
Because I'm addicted to you.
I am addicted to the night
where the streets are empty
and we can lay on gravel
and stare at the lights.
I told you before.

Addictions destroy you.
Meggn Alyssa Mar 2014
We can't make it though a normal day
of school and work
We talk at lunch
and "run out of time to eat"
We see things
We hear things
We think everyone is watching us
and we don't sleep at night

Because we're all ******* anorexic
dying with our own hands at our own throats
We're all that type of depressed
that medication won't even help
We're addicted to the things that will be the end of us
because for the night they make us feel so **** alive
We change our personalities
to cope with everyday people
like they are some trauma that sparked MPD
All high school-ers have insomnia
and then we start having delusions
hallucinations without the LSD
Anxiety levels are through the roof
and I think that's all I have to say

We're all going insane to meet the demands of regular life
We're pushing away our favourite foods so we can see our bones
We're resorting to anything that will keep us awake or put us out
Kelly Miller May 2016
Age 3.
She was a innocent little girl
Her father took her away from her mother...
Without even letting her say, “goodbye.”

Now, living with her drunken father
Developing through the stages of which she chooses
Having the choices every kid would love

But, for her they weren't choices
They were demands.
She was told to drink.
She was told to pass out.
She was told to stand.
She was told to listen.
Be smart!
Clean this room!
You must obey me!
Learn to think!
She was told to act just like her father.

She had no choice.
The little girl wanted to make a better life for her father.

Age 5.
Always wanting to make a difference,
But couldn’t do the things she wanted with that little voice she had

She goes to school…
Gets the education she’s told to learn.
Accepting how life comes to her.
Goes home…
Gets drunk...
Passes out.
Repeat.

They moved across from the police station.
This girl's life wasn’t well.
Her life began to go downhill...
When her wanted brother moved in.
Her father left to help them live their life
Get their groceries,
Pay the bills.
Although her father stopped the alcohol,
Her brother didn’t help.
The brother that chose to **** his only sister!

Too traumatized, and frightened to run…
She kept the event to herself for 7 years… too frightened to be touched.

Age 12.
In school again.
She loves education, but wants to make it better for other children.
Teaching things that will help in everyday life.
Not learning these long equations we wouldn’t use.
She would love to graduate and make her father proud.
He’s never proud though…

Although she’s gotten through the bullying and the embarrassing class speeches…
Being diagnosed with Bipolar Depression, and MPD didn’t help.
She was judged for being insecure of others.
She was beaten for the choices she chose.
She was tortured for trying to make a difference.

Age 14.
She was scarred through what her eyes have seen
Although they may have deceived
She understood others and their pain.

She told her loving step-sister about the event years ago.
It came as a surprise when she could relate from her daughter’s perspective as well.
She went to the police station and discussed the situation.
The police told the ignorant child to go home with her father.
They had done nothing.
Nothing for the child that had the courage to tell others.
Had the courage to speak up.
Had the thought others would believe her.
But, no.
Nobody. Believed her.

Age 16.
Growing up for High School.
Still suffering through her father, and now “step-mother”.
They call her their step-mother because. . . the little one never really had a mom.
She had searched and searched
But, nothing ever came to her.
Was she alive, or dead?
She had thoughts about her father and how it would make him feel if she ran away...
Would he care for her?
Would he call the police?
Would he even realize?

Looking at others, listening to others
Listening to their story.
She became friends with one…
Putting the blame on herself because she couldn’t save him.
She could have saved him.
She would have saved him.
Why didn’t she?!

. . . . .

I always came to questions of:
Does he love my mom?
Had he looked for her?
Did he hit my mom, or was I just dreaming?
Will I ever find her?
Is she dead?!

I - I don’t know.
Maybe.
I hope I will find her.
I have always felt a hatred for my father because of it…
I want life to be better.
Please…
Be. Better.

. . .

This…
Is my story.
Written January 9th 16
Warren Jun 2019
This is the story of Jeni Haynes, whose father inflicted horrific physical and ****** abuse on her from the age of four years old. As a result she created over 2000 alter egos to get her through it.
This is my account written with respect and love as  I feel she would tell it, just because some stories deserve a voice.

Dedicated to Symphony,
- For saving my life.

’I am an army,
A force of alter egos forged from the furnace of necessity.
Banded together in permanent transience,
Called forth by the voice purity.’
————————-
I am Symphony,
I’m 4
I came to Jeni first to comfort her through the pain,
Through the torture and torment of lamented youth,
I sang songs to mask the sounds of abuse,
Turned her face inwards,
Jeni found me because she needed me,
But I was not alone.
————————
There’s Judas and Muscles,
There always here,
Alters of Jeni’s yesteryear
‘We are hundreds,
thousands - an army to face,
We’re her solace,
Some of us permanently echoing inside,
some of us hide,
Some of us have a singular purpose,
All of us have the same intention,
To protect our Jeni without exception.’
—————————-
I am Jeni,
I have MPD  so they tell me,
DID is what it’s meant to be,
But I’m just me !
No one ever told me there shouldn’t be more,
Personalities and people behind the door,
So it’s perfectly normal inside my mind,
Just not what you would expect to find.

They call it abuse but it was way past that,
I cowered and cringed,
Paralysed with fear,
Praying he wouldn’t hear,
It was unavoidable,
Inescapable,
I couldn’t prevent it,
I was incapable,
Cried myself dry,
It was torture,
Repeated and repeated and repeated,
Through every sense,
The smell, the taste, the feeling and the pain,
So much pain,
Then Symphony came and things changed.
She brought with her so many,
An army to protect me inside,
Where I could hide,
They took it in turns.
Little Rikki was laid with the task,
It would brake his heart apart,
Each time he would send someone in my place
To face the horrors of my father to face,

And they did suffer,
Every alter, every time,
They passed the poisoned chalice between themselves,
Not letting it near me,
Keeping me inwards so I couldn’t see,
Without their sacrifice,
I don’t know where I’d be.
Crazy maybe.

There was Jay who spoke truth,
Kept me in line all the time,
Tried to protect me,
Run Jeni run
But he couldn’t protect me,
It would always be done.

They weren’t in my head - they were me,
Every one you could see,
I would let them step forward,
They would fulfil their need and then they’d step back,
It’s as natural as that.
It’s survival,
My solution,
A forced evolution of spirit and mind,
I was forced to find.
I’m not ill,
I’m just different.
This is who I am.
I am Jeni Haynes,
We all are in a roundabout way.

I asked people to help,
Told those of rank,
Drew blank after blank,
I’d accused my father of horrific acts,
Given the facts it’s not a topic that attracts.
So it was on me.

I studied,
One day they would see,
I subjected myself to the learn to have power,
In words and knowledge,
These are the weapons of modern times,
And I needed them more than ever.
I studied  psychology, Justice and crime,
Then I tried again.
This time I spoke their language,
I broke their arguments and lay waste to their  fears.
This time they would listen,
And they did.

I am strong,
Battle worn and worthy,
I have power more than most,
I could withstand pain,
Rained upon me over years of suffering,
I had focus,
Honed from an army that knew where to look,
And I had help,
We were heard,
We won our day in court,
That man that called himself my father,
Extradited from his exile,
Brought forth to testify for the wrongs he’d committed.
My 2hrs in court validated my years of silent abuse.
We spoke individually with one voice,
No plan,
I let those with the answers take the stand,
6 came forward to help me beat the one,
And they did,
He confessed,
Finally my fight could be laid to rest.

This is my story,
*****, buggered and systematically abused,
This is my story,
Of Symphony finding me broken and bleeding,
This is my story,
Of waging war against my father,
This is my story,
Of taking back me.
All of me,
Every part of me,
Until finally - I could see.

Jeni Haynes,
“May you find the peace you deserve.”
Bree Kempf May 2015
Scene:
The Number Ten, Wednesday Night,
Going over the Central Avenue Bridge,
Passes four MPD cars, one with a boat attached;
Five men in blue uniform huddle together, arms crossed, casually speak into shoulder mounted radios.
As their faces illuminate, blue shadows red highlights,
The passengers erupt in an echoing chorus:
     "Jump?"
          "Jump."

One little girl, thick braids framing innocent curiosity:
     "Jump?"
Her father, hesitating:
     "Sometimes the world is too much for one person."

     "Jump." "Jump."
The refrain continues the expanse of the bridge,
But has faded to no more than a whisper by the University Avenue Stoplight,
Escaped from your chapped lips:
     "j u m p."

Scene:
Two years prior,
You, finding yourself twelve hundred miles from home,
Face the Hudson River.
The surface of the water such a bright blue
But you can't see the riverbed underneath;
Nothing but a waist-high stone wall between you and discovering
Just how deep the bottom is.
Smoke a few more cigarettes while you keep asking yourself,
     "Jump?"
Two weeks later,
Fly back home, stand on the Snelling Avenue bridge looking over the train yard.
Here, it would be messy.
Here, you wouldn't disappear.
Here, you would create something far more beautiful in your death than you could ever be in life,
Organs splayed out across the tracks like a brand new ******* painting.
Take a picture on your phone,
Remind yourself of your canvas, save it for later.
You aren't quite ready to jump.
Martial law inapropos to stave, staunch,
and stem police brutality,
nevertheless commander in chief
will violently barrel ahead
particularly when blatant iniquities
flagrantly heaped upon
innocent dark skinned human bodies,
who far to often get accosted, beaten, choked
without justice, but
judged guilty merely existing.

Protestations within metropolitan urban areas
all across the United States
sparking riots else within world
began in Minneapolis on May 26, 2020
following the death of George Floyd
coroners determine cause of death asphyxia
after Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) officer
Derek Chauvin knelt on his neck
for 8 minutes and 46 seconds.

Akin to striking a match
into highly flammable liquid
diverse people expressed legitimate rage
against machinations targeting humans,
whose obvious epidermal pigment
unwittingly sacrifices said
dark skinned people burnt offerings.

Sacrificial lambs only become martyrs,
yet sadly never realize their true value, nor
relish (hot diggity dog) purposefulness
cuz her/his mortality nipped in (figurative) bud
when precious life cruelly stolen.

As iterated courtesy similar
crafted by yours truly
persons falsely hash tagged recalcitrant
(predominantly boys and/or men)
exhibiting physiognomy proclaiming
African American, Australia,

Haiti, Melanesia, Papua
New Guinea and South Asia...
as motherland, more so
black immigrants comprise
growing proportion of said
racial (constituency) population.

Usually no culpability
linkedin with rudely mistreated individual,
whose inalienable (inherent) rights:
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
hijacked solely predicated upon bigotry.

I (despite Caucasian visage)
plus concomitant anatomical accouterments
immediately grant badge of honor
and status of greater worthiness,
when doggone truth
does not merit me

automatic immunity against racial profiling
nsync, where upon birth said black people
unfairly falsely labeled hooligan
disproportionately assumed accountable
regarding crimes and misdemeanors
essentially faulting gregarious person

unknowingly caught in crosshairs
where twenty first century bounty hunter
experiences little or no compassion
towards dignified people,
whereat mine preferred modus operandi
to communicate utter disgust

(think malevolent treatment)
at mercy of cops,
née outright killers
more keen to loose a deadly bullet
versus win/win situation
comprising proactive conversations.

Though red hot poker anger
clearly evidenced courtesy
peaceful altercation (granted hoodlums
abound within fray to wreak bedlam),
but initial and foremost justification
explaining madding crowds
solely seeking redress asper grievances

maiming or killing decent,
kind, respectable neighbor
which hypothetical gal/guy going
about her/his ordinary business
all the while watched, scrutinized, notated...
simply because she/he happens
to belong to proud people of color!

I believe the pen (er... or keyboard)
more powerful than the sword
(substitute agitation, fisticuffs, melee...)
to recognize dignity of brethren and sistern
despite superfluous characteristic namely
melanocytes in some individuals and ethnic groups
which produce variable amounts of melanin.

— The End —