Exploitation is a smoking gun,
Stealing choices from our young.
It shoots at futures, leaving them dead.
Like bullets, grooming rattles through heads.
Exploitation is a blade thrusting deep,
Murdering families as grief steals sleep.
It uses tactics like pressure and threats,
Pushing gifts & drugs to create “work debts”.
Exploitation is a social media disease,
Using platforms to “recruit” with ease.
It fakes aspects of life to trick and coerce,
Making alternatives seem weak or worse.
Exploitation is lurking by shops and schools,
Dangling temptation to follow new “rules”.
It offers to help with what kids might want,
Sucking them in with status or front.
Exploitation is at first a friendly disguise,
As kids look in with innocent eyes.
It picks at any child’s perceived weakness,
Offering fake futures away from life’s “bleakness”.
Exploitation is a destroyer of homes,
Forcing kids “Out There” to “Carry” and roam.
It plugs inside children – just like drug wraps,
Abandoned to fend-off rival attacks.
Exploitation is bribery then assault,
Hurting and beating to get a “result”.
It brands and degrades to destroy any bravery,
Entrenching children in modern slavery.
I am from…
The lovely building
Where I played with my friends
At the age of 6
While he ogled from the other end.
I am from the swings
The slides, the seasaw and laughter,
From the cherished monsoon of 1990
And not from what he did to me soon after.
I am from the motherly love of my babysitter,
Whom I called “aai”, or mother in Marathi.
From that first taste of meat and fish
that she lovingly cooked for me.
I am from her delicious spicy mutton curry,
That I’d gulp down in a hurry,
From the maddening smell of rassa,
That stays with me to this day.
Neatly, deeply, lovingly knitted into my life
I am from the spice in Maharashtrian food.
I am from the peanuts, garlic, and the rich coconutty konkan curries
That love me in my lowest moods.
For they are me. And I am from them.
I am from trust, faith, and innocence
From joy, laughter, and pain.
I am from hugs and love for my baby sitter
I have not lost, I gained.
I am from acceptance and from rebellion
I am from anger but from wisdom
I am brave and I remember
I am from my memories.
Not just some.
I am from all my memories.
- Swe
Author Statement
I experienced the feeling of embracing myself and accepting myself for who I am. I felt encouraged to share my story in a way that it empowers me. And it was narrative therapy for me in just writing this for myself.
HUNGER
“You need to eat before you pass out.
Hello?
Missy?
Why aren’t you eating?
What's wrong with you?”
…hurt
hurt, hurt, HURT.
Why should I eat, when they starved me for over a decade?
Eat before I pass out you say?
But I've already passed out,
And NO!
It wasn't because I didn't eat,
That's what they kept voicing,
But it WASN'T because I didn’t eat!
It’s simply because I am not being me,
“Me?
What kind of foolishness are you talking about?”
I’m talking about expressing my need for hunger,
My need,
My desperation,
My hurt,
For hunger.
hunger, hunger, hunger,
For my dark soul,
Deep below,
Deep within,
All alone,
He’s all I ever thirst or hunger for,
For He fills me up with His wisdom and knowledge,
On how to be hungry for me,
Before I pass out in the hands of my roots once again.
He reminds me,
Only I can feed myself now,
Feed me with oneness in my mind, body, heart, and soul,
And for that, I am grateful to know,
To have the Lord be part of my dusty life,
The life He can take back,
In the split of a second,
Amen.
Author Statement
When creating this work, I was honestly experiencing emotional turmoil. Many emotions, feelings, sensations, and thoughts just kept on spiralling. I was so broken at this point to have recognized how much I was starved, and bullied at the dinner table alone. It’s still so faded, yet feels like it was only yesterday this was happening. It was so difficult to go through and is still TOO hard to look back on. I break so hard and don’t want to look back.
I have been working towards overcoming these immense negative/hurtful feelings, and try to remind myself that I deserve to eat. I deserve to walk in my own shoes, and make my own decisions. It hasn't been easy at all, but having this awareness and acknowledgement that it didn't stem from me helps tremendously. Also, to know that my past does not dictate who I am. I dictate who I am. TBH, I still FEEL like it's my fault but I KNOW it's not my fault. God bless.
HEALING
The hero’s journey
Exhausted
Recovering from the
Broken Pieces
Stretched
Thin
Tears of liberation
Healing
is
the path
Towards
the free self
Riding moon beams
Waves crashing
I exhale
The underworld
Pain of change
Loss
I am
Reborn
Collective Poem Process on Healing
Arthur Lockhart
Founder Emeritus
The Gatehouse
Author Statement
This poem was the outcome of a group poetry writing session where everyone attached a word or phrase to the word HEALING. I combined the words into a poem on healing. It was a truly joyful process collaborating with others, and each person was able to create their own unique poem through this creative process of collaboration and sharing.
There will be another such session in October through the Gatehouse. Please visit the Gatehouse website: www.thegatehouse.org to see the date when the session will be taking place.
Where did I lose myself?
Talking. Thinking. Trying.
Hiding.
Remembering. Realizing. Struggling.
Hurting.
When did I lose myself?
Burying. Protecting. Finding.
Hating.
How I lost myself…
Avoiding.
Here I am.
Author Statement
For many years, I thought I was ‘stuck’. I spent hours asking different therapists why I couldn’t get ‘unstuck’. After group therapy and reading (books seem to find me!), I realized I am not stuck. I am hiding. I need to heal before it feels safe for me to fully live in a healthy way. So, every day I take a step toward healing and not hiding. I wish that for all of us.
I got the invite.
I want to SCREAM.
Author Statement
When you are not (yet?) ready to reveal secrets to your whole family….you can write a poem. And wonder what would happen if they knew.
Once upon
me
was You.
Author Statement
This short poem says so much for me. Words are so powerful and there was power in me arranging them this way. Next step for me is to handwrite this poem.
SARALIVES…ON
**Trigger Warning**
Never seeing a way out,
Corrupted by the greatest enemy of all;
…the inner me,
"You piece of garbage,
Who do you think you are?
Why would anyone care for your existence?
You low life, you're a failure,
You want to know why people laugh at you?
It's because you're a disgusting piece of garbage,
When you talk, they laugh.
When you cry, they laugh.
When you breathe, they laugh.
If you just open your mouth, they bawl out with laughter.
Just end yourself already,
Go grab the razor blade,
Go grab the bottle of pills,
Go grab the garbage bag,
Go grab the bleach,
Go get that string from your robe,
I wish you were dead already,
No one will hear you except me,
I promise you are safe,
Safe with me,
Remember this, no one cares about you,
So, there really is no point to living,
Kill yourself. End it. Stop it."
STOP! STOP! STOP!
WHY WON'T IT STOP?
I CANNOT GET IT TO STOP!
help me, my mind has taken over, and i cannot control it any longer,
am i really the creator of these thoughts? it cannot be so…
"But it is so, stop trying to blame another soul, you pile of dust"
I JUST WANT PEACE! PEACE! PEACE!
"Yeah? Peace? Who do you think you are?
You won't ever get peace. You deserve to suffer you piece of garbage."
God? Lord? Source? Universe? Are you out there?
Oh…Please be there Lord, stay with me,
I don't think I will ever have eternal peace.
(with a sigh) "Yeah, I'll never have eternal peace..."
I am going to suffer forever,
My soul will suffer forever,
Please Lord, I did NOTHING wrong,
I was just a little kid,
A small, young, innocent little kid,
Who was supposed to receive LOVE, instead receiving a great deal of FEAR,
Though her true essence has always been of LOVE,
She loved those close to her, but they turned against her,
She loved Life, but Life remained a closed door,
She loved her grandma so dearly, but grandma was never known,
She loved her dad, but dad was never there,
That’s when it all started…
The destruction of MY mind, body, heart, and soul,
She doesn’t understand why or how, but that it started,
For the past decade or more,
It's been ME and A GREAT DEAL OF DENIAL...
DENIAL...DENIAL...DENIAL...
And after 21 years of being alive, I have finally been set free by the Truth,
By the Grace of God, My Lord, My Savior,
Let me share with you,
Share that the inner me, that wounded inner child,
Has now become my ally whom I will protect forever,
Because WE know it came from the others, not the self,
Thank You Lord, The Truth is setting me free.
SARA LIVES ON...
Author Statement
I never expected to live on. I thought I would be dead. Never knowing that my upbringing was fucking toxic and abusive. That no one ever cared, and genuinely hated me for being...I still don't know at this point. Then having been diagnosed with mental illnesses just allowed me to believe even more that I was the fuck up. That it was all me. That all those negative thoughts came from me. I was the creator of it. Of those self destructing, evil thoughts. That I now KNOW AND UNDERSTAND STEM FROM THE ABUSERS who are SADLY the very individuals that brought, and 'raised' me into this world. 'FAMILY.'