Poetry: Metaphorical Existence

Note that I wrote this poem to reflect on how my trauma manifested.  I am trying to heal from the conditioning of past trauma by recognizing the problem and how I am more then my trauma and PTSD.

The inception of the distorted, forgotten song —
howls through my ear-drums, tears my synapses
until I tremble and cry with the beat of its tide.

The puppet shivers, leaps, speaks by the strings
in the maker’s fingers, each twist ripples down, down
to the joints and heart to remake the story anew.

Am I a puppet pulled and pushed by other’s strings?
Am I a wounded hole, a metaphorical distortion
Or perhaps an illogical plot twist in another’s tale?

No, it cannot be. I am no puppet or plot point.
I must not forget. I must remember myself.
I am me. I am I. I hold the strings for only me.

Categorized as Writing

By Aibird

Open the door, step inside. Here you find a forest, teeming with animals and birds, which sweeps up the sides of snow-capped mountains. Here in the small pocket of beauty, one finds the essence of my soul. A writer at heart, I delve deep into the finer details of humanity's spirit, and seek to share with others what gems I uncover. I find life exciting and full of interesting surprises, and despite the great pain that often confronts me, I persevere with the joy in my heart still bubbling, and the light of my soul still aflame. There is a time and a place to introspect one's self, but often enough it is best to not look back in regret, but leap forward in the present toward the achievement of one's deepest dreams. I am a wanderer. An explorer. One place cannot contain me for long, but to my friends and family, I remain loyal, for love is not bound by time nor place. Once cultivated and nourished continuously, it binds people together on a journey through the unknown reaches of life.

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