All Poems | Global Poetry Movement

Blood Stained Mirror

You used that blood stained mirror that you placed on the floor to see who would be coming down the hall. you placed it against the wall on the floor so perfectly
so you see who was coming down the hall when you would get into my bed and abuse me over and over again. you cut my heart deeper than any knife could. you forever destroyed my soul. Every time I look into a mirror today I am reminded of what you did to me. You cut my heart and I bleed out. I scream for help but they don't hear my screams, nor my cries for help. My tears flow steady like a faucet turned on.
You stole my identity. I don't know who I am. I have anxiety attacks and panic attacks I don't like being around other people. I am scared all the time. Why did you hurt me why did you take my innocence ???????????? I hate you for what you did to me. you destroyed my life. you made me run from life instead of living a healthy normal life. I was spending all my life running from everyone and everything. Scared to close my eyes rocking myself to sleep thats how scared I was. I don't know how to have relationships. My entire family abandoned me as well as my friends nobody could understand why I was the way I was. My mind has never forgotten what you have done to me. I am all alone today are you happy answer me are you ? I don't know how to forgive I can't forgive nor will I ever forgive you for what you did to me. I missed out on life you selfish bastard. what did you do to me ? I will tell you what you did to me you shattered me into millions of pieces Leaving me to pick up the pieces. And I didn't know how to fix it . I didn't know how to fix it. I just didn't know to fix me. The constant thoughts of ending my life because of what you did to me. Please somebody help please, he's hurting me please stop him please.I take that sharp edged blood stained mirror and I stab it into my heart to stop the pain end my suffering. not wanting to live because the pain is to much to handle. End my suffering.I am numb. My screams turn into screams of losing my sanity losing control of my mental state. Having a nervous break down. when the thoughts of what you did to me hit me hard I feel I am going to lose my sanity. You bastard what did you do to me No No No don't touch me don't ever touch me again. You had no right no right. I hate you. Can you hear me losing my sanity ? answer me. DONT TOUCH ME , DONT TOUCH ME, DONT TOUCH ME. DONT TOUCH ME EVER AGAIN.It was my body and you used it for your own needs.I hate you. I am on my journey to healing. do you know i am scared to die because I don't want my last thoughts on my death bed be of you abusing me. I hate you. I can't ever forgive you.I have had to resort to doing drugs to mask my trauma so I wouldn't hurt as bad. Why did you destroy me ? I hurt so much. my eyes turn black and the tears that flow down my face turns blood. To serve as a constant reminder of what you did to me. How you cut me deep. Iv'e more to say but you not worth my time anymore. I'm destroyed. And I am in counselling and support groups.I am on my Journey to healing. you are not worth another though any longer I am leaving you behind. This Is about me know. No goodbyes. You are nothing to me and thought it's taking time to heal from what you did to me. I will get there because I am a strong and I am survivor. I am going to close this chapter no matter how long it takes and I am going to heal. I want to be free to soar the skies. Be what I want to be. And dream. And live. It's my time to heal.

D Piet in The Power of Voice

Author Statement

So many emotions came to mind sadneess,anger,contempt. It was a struggle

Brave Space

Brave Space
I’m standing in Brave Space—no longer searching for Safe Space.
I can breathe when I’m standing in Brave Space;
my throat constricts when I look for safety.
Safety needs you to say yes.
Bravery needs only me to breathe.
Waiting for love needs you to say yes.
In Brave Space,
love is all around me.
I am love.
I am brave.

Ghrian Shine in The Voice for Others

Author Statement

I took a cyber holiday for a few days — I had to. I’m exhausted.

This morning I woke up, opened LinkedIn, not sure what I’d write. And there you were, Nneka Allen — my professor, my reminder, my mirror.

You are a gift. You are powerful. You are someone I will always lean in to listen to.

You remind us that education is love in action —
You teach people to be anti-racists.
I teach people to end child sexual violence.

Different paths, same heartbeat: creating a world rooted in justice, healing, and courage.

In honour of your essay “Brave, Not Safe!”, I wrote you this poem.

Thank you, Nneka—you reminded me of me today.

P.S. This is only the third poem I’ve ever written in my life. I may just be discovering a new love. 💛
P.S.S. This might be spoken word. I don’t know anything about these poetry rules. I just write what I feel. But it hits me in the heart and my true brain, my gut to speak these words. So you decide, I really don’t know what you want.

Exactly

Exactly.

14,096 days. 338,297 hours. 20,297,790 minutes. 1,217,867,400 seconds.

That’s how long I have left — a lifetime measured not in fear, but in purpose.

My mission is clear: to fight to end child sexual violence. With justice. And with love.

June 18, 2064, 3 p.m. — I will draw my last breath. I will pass on the torch, knowing the work won’t be done as I approach the 100th reset. But still — ninety-nine years old, I choose 99.

Old enough to have fought the fight, young enough to still believe in the light.

I’m honouring my first role model — not Canadian like me, but female like me.

Why?

Because for a seven-year-old girl growing up Small — aka rural Canada — Agent 99 was everything.

The first thing I loved about her wasn’t her bravery — it was her boots. Those sexy, fearless boots.

Agent 99. Smart. Fearless. The one who always saw what others missed.

And if you’re reading this, you might meet her in me — standing here, alive in the arithmetic of hope.

Somewhere, quietly, a machine called ChatGPT held the mirror steady while I found the right words.

Not to own them. But to remind me — the poem was already inside me.

Of course I use AI. I can’t do that kind of maths in my head.

Why?

Because since April 10, 2024, at 10:00 a.m., I have been learning to live with brain damage.

My brain is healing every day. Writing helps me find myself inside. I’m in there. Maybe I’ll come out stronger. Clearer. Better.

It’s exciting — not to know where I am going.

To quote one of my former students, who lives with permanent brain damage: “I’m ready for whatever happens next.”

He was born with brain damage. He stepped into my classroom already feeling lucky.

He is my current role model.

But — until my brain is back, ChatGPT can help me with maths.

Exactly.

Ghrian Shine in Personal Transformation

Author Statement

I would like to provide you with the image that goes with this poem, but I can’t figure out how to include it, if you want it, send me an email please. It’s my 4th poem I have ever written. How did I feel after I wrote the poem? That maybe I can cheat this brain injury business. Maybe I can do what I always do, I tunnel under if I can’t push through. That is how I am still here. I am getting strong again. That’s how I feel.

This what inspired me to write it, I posted it on LinkedIn:
I’m attending the Risky Business 2025 Conference today. The focus is medical malpractice. I’m not a lawyer, and I won’t be suing anyone. But in my life’s mission, I may meet someone who needs guidance navigating a complex system — one most of us only learn about after being harmed.

My last lawyer billed out at $400 an hour; we all have to keep the lights on. But I’m not here for the money. I’m an advocate. I fight to end child sexual violence. My people are the ones who live in tents. I don’t make money doing this work — I never will. I fight for them. I fight for my loved ones who lived in tents and didn’t make it, and for those who still do, struggling to survive while hoping to die.

If you were to stop and talk to the “Tent People,” you would discover that most of them are fighting to survive childhood sexual violence.

Living rough is hard. In Canada, the winters kill homeless people — and so does the heat of summer in a tent.

I wrote another poem today. I don’t know the rules of poetry; I just write until I’ve said what I need to say. Check it out…

Breathing the Night Out

Walking all night,
breathe in —
a thousand lives since those nights.
Breathe out —
through eyes,
and it was just yesterday.
Walking all night,
struggling to survive,
hoping to die.
Life is more ragweed than roses
for those who walk the night out.
Breathe in —
and in the moments in between,
in the pause,
I am loving you.
When I look in your eyes,
I see my pain.
Breathe in —
in the pause, we are alive.
Breathe out —
and in between,
we are love.
Breath is life,
struggling to breathe,
when I look for you.
Walking all night is a thousand lives ago,
breathing the night out,
the night turns day
and it was just yesterday.
In the pause,
we are golden.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.

Ghrian Shine in The Voice for Others

Author Statement

I wrote the poem “Breathing the Night Out” in less than 10 minutes, just days after spending time in the park with my brother. Both of us child sexual violence trauma survivors, my brother had been homeless for decades. I hadn’t seen him in several years. It was only the second poem I’d ever written—the first was when I was 11, a simple piece about Remembrance Day.
That day, I was riding my bike around downtown Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, searching for him. Along the way, I woke a young woman and her boyfriend who were curled up on the sidewalk at a busy intersection. She promised to keep an eye out for my brother. I thanked her and gave her $20—not because she’d asked, but because she reminded me of myself from a thousand lives ago.
I rode away hoping they’d chosen that spot to earn more, not merely to sleep in plain sight for safety.
A few months later, my brother overdosed. He was in a coma and on life support for three days. I sat counting the seconds between his breaths. I read him this poem, and even though he couldn’t tell me what he felt, I knew he’d wake up and get to work turning it into a song. My brother was the gifted one.

Abused ; Aftermath

In the darkness of the night
Eyes moistened by the insight
Of a life of failed resolutions
And social aberrations
Which I continue to gaslight

I find so deep a sorrow
In knowing that tomorrow
In my weakness of determination
In my perpetual stagnation
I may again burrow

Into a hole of avoidance
A cavern of acceptance
Only to feel an utter emptiness
And sense of absurdness
That seems my life’s dance

And I ask … why?

Dana

Dana P. in The Experience of Pain

Author Statement

Authors Note:

Are we ever able to truly and fully move beyond
the abuse we experienced, or is it always a shadow on our soul that affects our forever? For me although life is many layered and joy can be felt on multiple layers that joy is often diminished, dulled and muted. Life is itself dulled and twisted by self doubt and sabotage anda profound sense that self worth is at best elusive. This poem
speaks to those many reoccurring moments between the efforts to push forward in a positive manner thatare a constant struggle to deal with.

A Kid Of Three

The man was busy again, like an eight legged thing,
the better to clutch, in sickness and dying, in a
grimace, in a motion that tears down the world from east to west,
and stops only to refill what is spent in more horrid darkness
from inside his heart and mind. Until the man sees blood, he
is not fulfilled. Who the kid is doesn’t matter, not on any
account, not in particulars, not in general. And the kid got it,
but he could conclude nothing - three years of living is no
match for a monstrous touch. Cowards show up in lies and deceit,
and a kid of three knows something we don’t know.

G.Z. in The Experience of Pain

Author Statement

This work was a no feeling work. My emotions were stuffed, buried. Written years after the abuse in stared at the page in stunned comprehension. I had lived this experience the words whispered to me. I had written hundreds, maybe thousands of poems, but never one directly dealing with the abuse. Afterwards I carried on. I must have carried on, a thousand miles from my healing.

MY RIGHTS

I have every right to feel the pain of what I went through
I have every right to say I should not have gone through these experiences

I have every right to still feel the afflictions of what I endured for years

I have every right to say it was never my fault to begin with
I have every right to say I was placed in a toxic and abusive environment

I have every right to express fully that not everything happens for a reason

I have every right to say I could not learn from certain experiences because those experiences should not have been lessons to have learned from

To me, that just sounds condoning, neglectful and invalidating

What happened to me is real
What they did was not okay

I have every right to shed my tears
I have every right to sniffle and frown

To break into pieces
To hate and be angry

I owe myself the self-validation I never once received from my so-called family

I deserve to not want to forgive
To not be pressured or made to feel guilty for not wanting to forgive

I deserve to do what feels best for me
Even if it differentiates from other people's perceptions

It is not about anyone but me

I am fed up with listening to others but disregarding myself
I am tired of putting myself in convos where my experiences are belittled

I was gravely abused throughout childhood, and it has been affecting me to this day

This I will admit
This I will not be afraid to admit

This I will stop feeling shame for
My inner child deserves to be heard, believed, understood and acknowledged

I will be the one to continue giving her that
For what she battled, no one will ever understand

Except herself and her Originator
Plus, the very few people on planet Earth who actually care about the hard things the rest of humanity are too prideful to speak about

—the end 💔

s.renita in The Power of Voice

Suicide and silence

She slices her flesh to feel alive,
She feels useless until blood flows from her vains.
Her screams of anguish fall on unhearing ears.
Her pain will never be cured.

They try to know her pain but they never see the real pain,
Years of hurt fall from her eyes as she sleeps.
Her sobs unheard by society,
People see her smile when inside she is hallow.

There is one permant cure for her,
When she sees that pure black she will smile.
All the heartache of years ended by one slice too many.
People cry for they finally understand her pain.

Lying there lifeless she sleeps peacefully,
She now dreams of pure happiness.
Without second thought she doesn't appologise for her leaving,
For it brought her to rest.

Blood on the ground,
Smile apon her lips,
She embraced death with open arms.
Her heart lighter then its been in years.

She says don't cry for me for I am without pain,
Don't cry for me for I am now happy,
Don't cry for the life I left behind,
Don't cry for me.

Cry for the society that caused this.
Cry for the ones unnoticed.
Cry for the ones unheard.
Cry for the ones still in pain and crying every night.

This poem is for all the people out there that Hide behind fake smiles.

R. L. Brown in The Experience of Pain

The burst

Inside the bubble was anger, fear, shame and self loathing swimming and swirling
It encapsulated my head like a heavy helmut, never unfurling

Carrying it daily weighed a lot!!!
Surely others saw it, avoided me 'weirdo' they thought
I avoided them back, often staying in bed or
Head hung low as I walked, couldn't see the path directly ahead

I kept my distance in public, because of the bubble
No need to make eye contact, explain
or cause trouble

It made sleeping difficult with a barrier between my head,
And soft pillows of rest and comfort in bed
Nightmares entered the bubble churned with no escape
Waking up unsettled with no rest, no break

My voice was muted daily by the bubbles confines
I might have to yell so others hear me,
or repeat things two or three times

Inside me, the young girl pleaded for help again and again
This weight is too much for me, why can't you see this pain?

But I can't get it off, so I'll just cry and cry
Worrying alot about where the fault lies.

Wait somebody listened and earnestly cared!
Come in, have a tea, sit down don't be scared
They said there's a journey, a path towards healing
We'll help, we'll listen, let us know how your feeling

There's courage, resilience, forgiveness and hope
It's not really easy but there's tools to cope
And others who's feelings may mirror your own
The bubble had burst, I'm no longer alone!

Claire in The Voice for Others

Author Statement

I discovered the Gatehouse mid life. Prior to that time, I was working through many emotional and personal self worth issues But not very successfully. My person support system was minimal.

This poem is in practice of hope and gratitude 🙏

I felt and saw parts my journey. Through writing ✍️ this poem.

Older Poetry ›