"victimhood" poems
Boys will be boys, will be men, will destroy
Will take and take what you create
Will shame you if you deviate
Will make the rules they proceed to break
And after every encounter, you're a little more shaken
A little more autonomy from you has been taken
You rack your brain to find the words to demonstrate just how it hurts
Time passes - and the moment is gone
They were staring at your *** and you know it was wrong
You know you don't belong
You are an object for observation
But that's a whole different song
So does it make it any better when you play along?
Are you simply playing victim in a manmade system?
A child of the Fight, how do you extract from that mode?
In a world full of players, you let yourself be taken
How is it that you manage to let the simple words break in?
The glass ceiling is surprisingly sharp
And the burden on your back gets heavier as you approach
The child in the closet didn't make it this far
There's a fine line between honoring your wounds and hiding in the dark
This is the line I walk every day
On one side, victim and healer, I tend to my wounds
The other lives in reality and makes the right moves
But duality is a falsity
Of course one can't be two
And the structure I see in the world I perceive brings out the fight
**** the patriarchy
**** the Right
They're not right
Their vision is just limited
There are so many issues I wish to address
If I cry through the fight, does that make it worth any less?
Does my brokenness somehow discount the rest?
The weight of my burdens change by the day
And yes, victimhood is the easiest way
May I be the last to place blame
This glass house holds no shame
And if you won't throw the stones at the broken and stuck
Pass them around and throw them straight up
Let's all make the ceiling shatter and fall
And watch now as the shards rain down
And this can happen when we're all ready to be active
And act as protagonists in our own play
So **** the patriarchy, but do it in your own time, and in your own way
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
this is how it works-
what i focus on
e x p a n d s
fills my life with its presence
the positive or the negative-i make the choice.
victimhood or victorious-i choose how the world remembers me
the one i reject shrinks
ignored, it is dissolved, bygone
positive or negative it disappears if it isn’t minded
call myself a failure - the world will agree
call myself a success – still they’ll cheer
you see, its always me who decides, what i want to be!
of course, it must come with a big dollop of humility
i can only start with me-change begins with me
can influence only that which lies within-inner peace
focus on my strengths, help them be
inflate them in my reality
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
15.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC
Drinking at the bar, I suppose it was that time of night
When the Drink itself starts doin' most of the talking
And the guy says "I've been through the **** man, in this life, I've waded knee deep through it... the deep ****
And the other guy says "What **** you talking about ?"
So he told him, yea! He spins out his tale of woe
Of hurts and grievances, injustices and false accusations, bruises and batterings received both physical and mental
A whole sorry catalogue of troubles, of fights and quarrels, anxieties and illnesses, struggles with various multiple monsters..."
When he's finished the Other says rather dismissively "You call that **** that ain't **** that's ******** Sure my **** was bigger than that, much bigger
The **** I went through, Man! Some of the **** I seen...indescribable man'
So then he starts to spin his tale of woe... more ****
And when he's finished the Other comes back at him saying
**** You call that **** that's horseshit!
My **** was bigger than that, much much bigger!!
Your **** it's just... it's just *****
And so, there they were the two of them, at the bar arguing to and fro
About whose **** was the bigger
Till suddenly over in the corner, out of the shadows, with his face half obscured
This man, he clears his throat rather loudly
Causing them both to momentarily stop their bickering and look over
He then slowly raises a glass of JD (Jack Daniels) to his lips and takes a long sip
Then he says "What do you know about... the **** ?
Huh! (said in disgust) You don't even know what **** is
Why, my shit's bigger than both your two ***** put together"
Then he smiled a menacing smile and said "You wanna hear my **** story"
So he spins his tale of woe, a real shitstorm...
A real Moby **** of ****
The others they listened in awe
When he'd finished, One said very impressed
"Man!..Man That's... that's some ****
Then another said "That's Big **** !"
And another "That's real Elephant **** Man!"
Then silence reigned in the bar
Until one sighed and said wearily
"It's all **** this ***** isn't it?
Nov 23, 2022
Nov 23, 2022 at 7:53 AM UTC
See her,
skinny lassie -
so aware,
stood there
at the counter.
The eyes
lifted from papers,
hooded and guilty,
leering
under sunglasses.
She knows nothing,
thinks
she's in charge.
Bless her.
Whatever's going to break her
hasn't happened yet.
Makes me shudder,
the thought.
The painful innocence.
"Just a fruit smoothie, please!"
she sparkles
at the man.
Thinks his approval
is unloaded,
worth seeking.
No eyes on me.
Glances fall off me.
If I catch a look,
I see it turn
to embarrassment,
pity
or scorn.
Firing blanks, guys.
I'll take those
over possessiveness,
lust,
crawling promises.
Over saccharine
strychnine
strangler smiles,
over violence, veiled
as love.
Your attention is toxic.
Better show it as such.
"Chips and cheese, please,"
I wheeze,
and his sneer
is a klaxon
of cruel jokes
he'll share with colleagues later.
Those
are the tiny victories
of victimhood,
as the twirling girl inside
stays protected,
unsuspected.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
falling to pieces
does not make you a victim
falling to pieces takes courage
'lashing out'
(as you called it),
at what they did
or didn't do,
or said
or didn't say,
or thought
or didn't think,
or whatever you expected
and didn't get,
does.
and you wear victimhood
like a seething samurai's honed sword
raining relentless, remorseless
flesh wounds of projected guilt
grasping to the hilt
the illusion
that your self-satisfying slashes
are self inflicted suicides
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Languages are elastic realities of ages
Going beyond political and historical chauvinism
That selfishly blends into exclusive nations
The European languages we slavishly speak
In diversity of the world is a ****** testimony,
Ostensible Afro-American cultural civilization
Are mere protégés of transplanted tongues
In forlorn position of knowledge
That derides cultural Darwinism
Unto this last that Language
is born and grow from the native soil,
Nurtured by facts of history in timbre of altruism
Where misfortune of history ***** my stature
Planting unknown and unnamed language
In my ****** soil of pristine times
My conscience not yet passively accepting
The changing misfortunes of the transplanted English
As they are at current times
The negations of vicious cultural Darwinist
Condemning me a victim of tonguistry.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
*Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?
then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do evil.*
Jeremiah 13:23
We’re tired of your feline past
predatory darkness cannot last
your claw and tooth, your fangs, your youth –
they get old fast.
Your sullen, incoherent style
has grown intolerably vile.
After the **** your prey is still
in pure denial.
Leopard-phantasms feed the flames;
the thing that spawned you whines and blames
although we could call Motherhood
by harsher names.
Jungle law enforcement should
stop crowning you with victimhood
erase your spots, connect the dots –
we wish you would.
Then lambs with lions shall rejoice
while lines with iambs raise their voice;
spotted pards play wiser cards.
(A better choice.)
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
۞۩۞
Offended by your victimhood
while victimized by your offense,
you hurt so bad that I felt good;
my guilt was sweet – your pain intense.
I lacked your lack of self-esteem
yet shared your sense of wounded pride
while sleeping through our waking dream -
the Inner Light left on outside.
Your suicide invades my space –
your death insults my lifeless life.
Your omnipresent cryptic face
beams forth, as dull as any knife.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
Mortality is the closing fate
promised by the watching gods
for those mortals on the face
of a world all will escape
sad casualty of many fates
each with the same end result
taking all from the souls
arrayed at the finish line
finality that none shall avoid
hence my focus on the now
taking arms to make a mark
not play the martyr in response
by a pen or the sword
drawing blood in last resort
fighting back against the dusk
while the sun is lost from sight
stones reside on the hill
some exclaim the consequence
of laying down before the end
already placed in victimhood
look to the others that inspire
beneath the stones their arms are ******
a middle finger to the sky
still the warriors as in life.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180817.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
Pain is awakening: the expansion of consciousness.
There is no half-way mark:
ignorance in sleep, health in full waking,
bound the gulf of hallucinations we call life.
In that Abyss of lies we deceive ourselves
until at last Truth annihilates the deceived,
unveiling the hidden Glory of the liar.
In the mantle of victimhood, Identity accretes
like a pearl on the tongue of a mollusk;
and a narrator, lost in the telling,
comes to mistake the story for reality,
wounds for tragedy, scars for harm.
Identity forms about Chaos,
a shell of experience that shrouds
a kernel of Truth.
A pearl is but a grain of sand
made beautiful by pain.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
It lurks below my consciousness, the beast beneath the bed
Tortured by imagination, vivid in my head
Strikes without notice, the world is dark and blind
To all the ****** massacres that play behind my eyes
Victimhood held hostage, convinced manipulation
Sickly soul so serpentine, saboteur salvation
Left within the grimaced grin, of tormented left demented
Suffer so, these chains and ropes, you'll never be accepted
Amusement starts to linger, maybe mould, or rot
Decaying internally, for he feels the hope is lost
So smile, smile, smile, and learn to love the sinner
For all that will remain is this twisted, Grim Grinner
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 8:39 AM UTC
I know
that you got into a relationship
with a guy who only married you
for your money
and your huge ****
I know
that you're branching out of the dead gardens
of your relationship
to sew seeds in my field,
and they keep dying.
I know
that you know how I feel about about it all
and you know that I think you're a great guy.
I am not the liver transplant
for this liqueur-derailed
dance you're doing.
We're all sorry.
Your victimhood
is a virulent strain
infecting everyone
but
me.
-r0
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
God's second greatest creation is man,
Formed from clay into which He breathed new life,
Then perfected His creation in Eve,
Not from base clay but Adam’s flesh and bone.
On Adam God practiced His creation,
In Eve perfected it tweaking its flaws,
More heart, less hubris; more sense, less muscle,
More love less hate; focused on “us” not “me.
Sacred texts written by men disagree,
With what is only a most obvious truth,
God's truth whispered in men's ears only proves,
None are so deaf as those who will not hear.
Thus women have been blamed for all men's woes,
From Adam's fall to every earthly sin,
Marginalized, objectified and scorned,
As easy targets for men’s jealous rage.
Mankind is so much less than womenkind,
In all the ways that count save in brute strength,
Brute strength served tyrants well six thousand years,
Alas, serves tyrants well still to this day.
Barefoot and pregnant, subservient and poor,
Unschooled, unheard, and too often unloved,
Their primary role a breeding vessel,
To pleasure men and give them healthy sons.
No voice, no vote, no power and no hope,
To this day blamed by some for all man's ills,
Victims of **** ****** for their victimhood,
Honor killings from men most honorless.
The miracle of life was gifted you,
Men plant the seed and then their job is done,
They can wander away to plow new fields,
While women nurture life--cradle to grave.
I am in awe of all that you endure,
And all that you accomplish throughout life,
Diamonds treated like broken glass by fools,
Whose brilliance shines only in their own minds.
I am a son of Adam, share his flaws,
And know full well women have their faults too,
Yet for me hope for all humanity,
Rest with Eve’s daughters, not with Adam’s sons.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:20 PM UTC
What’s the statute of limitations
on my obligations
as a son
on my victimhood as a
semi-orphan
on my blamefulness as a
father
When does it end—these yet-to-be-seen effects of the mundane
I make now?
When do I not carry them
the strings
of the yarn map tracing
my endless encounters and tacking
not into cork but
into my soul stretched pulled
in four dimensions.
Length times width times depth times time. I coexist
in every manifestation of
myself simultaneously.
All time all me, all tacked,
All pulled, all stretched by
more hands than my own. Vibrating
into my marrow reminding
of the inescapability of the
contracts I didn’t sign. Most of them.
Each day the threads move.
They swirl and choke or puncture
taut and pull. pull. pull
me back, back to them.
To early morning and late nights
every day
That old house of repressed
memories and façade bonds
of newspaper-wrapped electric
circuits waiting for the
spark
to finally incense the
old aged kindling of other
string maps of
other pasts of
more and more disappointment.
My heart is a prism. a rock.
set in the stone of my
chest compressed
by pressure into endlessly
juxtaposed edges of glass.
An edge: a time a place a person a me. Surrounded
onyx black
but yet
Reflecting. It’s deep
yes
but shine deep enough
yes, go
and it will reflect
go on, go on
fluoresce
yes yes yes go
myriad colors of spectrums
of me
torn out of the mine of
my own construction of
the muscle memories of
the past pains of
the unceasing variations of
the crude black **** I’ve
made before.
How long
will I be responsible for
her?
For you?
Was I ever?
Am I at all?
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Death, at arms length
Made to fit in my hand so sweetly
The black steel grip
feels like I mean something
The slave for my anger
A powerful blame
A home for my victimhood
An outlet for my pain
at muzzle velocity
I don't even have to touch them
I can simply squeeze - just lightly
To **** them
All of them
Even the ones I don't know
They're collateral damage of my hatred
My anger is big enough for anyone to die for
Even myself
And this piece, will be my release
At 30 lives in a clip, I'll release so much
It will be over so fast. BAM!
They won't even know what hit them.
Neither will I
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
When it happened
I was already dying
everything
happening
slowly
and then
it
was
done.
and I fought
but even if I hadn’t
I would still be to blame
for the shame
i ran from
that night
followed
me
for
ever.
so now I’m a dead girl-woman
writing to you from the other side
just to talk.
about this
Well not really talk
just describe
a story that
happened
to
repeat
itself
again.
and
again.
Until we were
all
silenced
by
our
own
admission
as damaged goods.
knowing
that people
look at you
with
fear
somehow
you're catching
contagious
victimhood
and
tell
you
“well just don’t walk alone tonight.”
As though somehow
you would be to blame
if it happens again
but this time
you're sure
you’d just *******
**** him
before
running
again.
because at least this time
someone
else could
bleed
instead.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
It is difficult
to find anybody
who hasn't been
diagnosed
with something
and seems
to wear their
alleged affliction
like a shiny
merit badge.
People seem to want
to be rewarded
for being troubled,
as if falling into a hole
is the same as
jumping down
into it.
I suppose
they want sympathy,
but put sympathy
in a shoebox
and see how much
it weighs.
Victimhood:
the new disease
of our time.
Prognosis: poor.
~mce
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
a sudden Bonanza viz ****** abuse among
faux Green Acres within Mayberry RFD
now spells showtime for The Avengers, Batman
and Robin to Get Smart
take to heart (what haint no new bob bing beast),
those perpetrators to forsake their Good Times
yet, who determines what constitutes, and how to differentiate
mere kibitzing from unwanted overtures
though most people would concur when
definitive, tangible, verbal assault occurs,
spoiling future Happy Days, yet numerous incidents *** hide
from clear cut serious offences indeed)
rather when details appear nebulous, sketchy, vague,
et cetera defy categorization, giving benefit of doubt to
females or males in question claiming harrassment,
especially when minors testify as adults, asper
major gross indignties (such as pedofilia, date,
incestuous, statutory **** ******
et cetera committed), that occurred years or decades ex post facto
sans molestation, said time delayed contention
must be taken at face value without fail informing
a jury retroactive justice must be must be handed down
to the accuser blatantly, flagrantly, flaunting illegality,
hence fair sentence accordingly adjudicated
insync decreed capital crime abrogated child welfare,
defiling and permanently affecting emotional well being
of said underage youths, as best one
to compensate aggrieved subjects must purge
abominable categorical imperative
asper deliberate wanton (I soup pose), tricked, mislead,
forced to participate unwillingly
risking mental, physical and spiritual health of innocent kid
imposing unforgivable, horrible, execrable misdeeds
irrevocably damaging Lassie or laddie,
which indelibly foisted battering, whereby
even Doctor Marcys Welby M.D. unable to mend
condemning sufferer to psychological Mash pit
triggering Maude lin while Knot's Landing flooded.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
"People love being weak. They are in love with with their weakness–flaws. This is due to the twisting of their own egoism: when they see someone strong and free of flaw or worry they must invent some way to justify their own value by contrast. They take those traits which define the capable, noble and powerful and redefine them; make them into hallmarks of stupidity and shallowness. They make claim that what is truly good is what is weak, flawed and incapable–what is like them.
What is most noble is what suffers the most. Who is the greatest victim is the greatest good, superior to all others. Thus you can see them in action: arguing for their victimhood, trying to be the weakest and most pathetic. Busily inventing with creative fervor new statuses of being to which to cling.
What is more profound, more deep and compelling than one in pain?
The irony could never be more clear in that the weak grow strong in their weakness to justify their secret longing to be superior to the strong. Are they not after all damaged, and yet still surviving? What is more brave than that? What is more laudable or commendable?"
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Illusions are the new reality
Victimhood the chosen mentality
Opinions lead to fatality
Common sense is the new insanity
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
My bodies soaked in victimhood,
like a holy bath,
I am baptized in it,
you can smell it on my tattered limbs,
and on my crumbling bones,
blood stained on my hands,
I can’t seem to wash it off,
I’ve scrubbed my body with satan’s hands,
to get the evil off of me,
but I’ve been tainted by my own insanity.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
I cried my eyes out on our double bed as you yelled, cursed and threatened.
I gave in.
You know me better than I do. It was a mistake, you’re right, you’re right, I wanted it. I’m sorry, I’ll do better, please forgive me for my victimhood.
I will never forget the taste of narcotics and the touch of his hand on my thigh, or the smell of alcohol and so much worse.
Hold on. I can barely remember this. You’re a liar, you scream, I know you wanted him too.
I froze.
Well, you were there. You should know. I’m a cheat, you’re right, you’re right, I had a small crush on him. I’m sorry, just please stay, you don’t have to believe me.
I will never forget your dead eyes as they bore into me, all passion gone, as was all trace of the love you had for me.
You hated me for something I didn’t do, you’ll never forgive me. Eventually you leave me, you tell all your friends.
They all think I lied, a wolf in sheep’s clothing who cried his own name
Howling at the moon that I didn’t do it, I didn’t want it
As our black sheep, that’s you, whispers of the wolf that I was.
There is no happy end.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 7:43 AM UTC
.
and look !
See !
Here I am !
So CHRIST like in the purity
Of my love !!
CRUCIFIED !
crucified for the purity of my love
Given so generously
So freely
( a NO STRINGS ATTACHED offer ! )
//
Such a deal !
//
BUT !
//
Look at me now
AND BELIEVE ME
SOME MIGHTY POWERFUL BEINGS ARE MIGHTILY
****** OFF !
/./
and so I can only say
SEE !
The donation box !
( the no strings offer has been rescinded )
/:/
I know you know how that goes
Don't you
My little " loving "
Boys and girls !
Offering yourselves "freely "
Until the time
To
Move in
For the **** !
///
ITS LIKE 9/11 !
Once you create the illusion of victimhood
You may
CONQUER THE WORLD !
//
in your
ENDLESS WAR !!
/:
Like me
The ETERNAL VICTIM
I CONQUER YOUR SOUL
AND YOUR LOVE
AND ALL YOU ARE AND MIGHT BE !
::
The victim
Broken
//
Well
As the poets say
There is no love without pain !
( or is it
There is no pain without love ? )
//
Well
Ultimately
I guess both are the same
//: //
well
SEE YA ALL AT THE HOMELESS VET CENTER !
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
There be no other falling like this
You see pleasure in this victimhood
This person that becomes your all
The escape you sought from solitude
Your heart in the palm of her hand
To her assertions you're no more inert
That leaves you most vulnerable
Should she choose to exercise hurt
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
When did I ***** these parameters,
From which I can't escape
Since when did I hem myself in so tightly
That I can't breathe, that I refuse to let myself be
I made rules for myself
To deter myself from getting hurt
But these rules are suffocating me,
Suffocating my autonomy
What happened to the days when I proclaimed boldly
That I would grow up to be just like Amelia Earheart
Fearlessly flying beyond any limitations
Until I am boundless,
Beyond the limitation of my body
Why has the trauma of adolescence and the uncertainty of adulthood
Made me such a calculated, cynical being,
Begging the ineffable for meaning?
Digging for the answers of what I'm supposed to be
Can females be forward and pursue their dreams?
Without the fantasy of a man who would provide stability
I guess the world has made me scared
Of the reality of being a woman
That wanting a man
Feels like a necessity, like a security blanket,
Or a gun
To ward off these crimes against womanhood
But it's really a flaw in perspective,
Women may be the victim of ****** oppression,
Being used as flesh mannequins to penetrate and beat,
A weaker vessel on which to release the pent up rage of the patriarchy
But I shall persist, nonetheless,
For when the whole world is against me
I rise
I've been a victim for too long
But in my victimhood I have found that I am strong
And that the only security I need
Is this relentless heart,
Living for a cause
So that maybe oneday, more people's eyes will be open to see,
And soon we'll just be able to breathe
Without all this trauma and worldwide unease
Death has become defeated,
So, I must live without parameters,
I must be fearless.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC