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.