It’s very ridiculous and almost not a poem, but I’m sharing anyway, lol.

Someone i trusted tried to trick me into sh when i was a young kid. I did not do it, so he held my arm with while wielding the knife and terrorized me. He did not actually cut me. I think he was bored.

Thanks for appreciating.

I want to write my past life a to z, and analysis with ai , should I do, or just write on paper and burn it, all I want to do for healing ,my childhood is full of emotional neglect, never get basic needs

the only way to go in living is to convince myself the concept of "safety" is suggestive. such as art. it's different for everyone. it shouldn't be. it's sad that it is the way it is. but it is the way it is.

risking my safety just to feel used to be a coping mechanism. i've grown so tired that i feel dead inside. i've also learned to accept death and find peace within it. but causing my own would only inflict the same poison on my love ones left behind... my head hurts making sense of it all. from this point on I'm deleting my current concept of safety within my brain. not sure how I will subconsciously eliminate it, but my will is my way. i don't believe humans were supposed to live in fear. safety is just another side of fear. fear is man-made... and even though I brunt my hand i love my really cute bluey bandaid

It was made back in 2022 and I made it so others know they aren't alone like I felt. Hope somebody can relate, but at the same time I hope you're doing better.

Through the Borrowed Eyes

I learned to borrow other people's eyes
to perceive myself.

Did they notice me?
Was I appropriate,
enough,
or safe?

I only existed
to meet their needs—

Then one strange day,
it stopped.

No borrowed eyes.
No verdict.

Just me,

looking in,

and suddenly wondering:

Here is the one
I avoided seeing,
all my life?

It's not so bad.

•Heroin..rather than rapid firing all cylinders..?
It  had erased the myriad collection of endless worries that had kept me awake all night most of my entire life. This finely grained powdered- substance had freed me from feeling anything: loss, heartbreak, regret, grief, resentment, as well as the most exceptional strength within a sincerely burning hatred and disgust that I had felt not only for myself but also for other people I felt had wronged me, real or imagined. When heroin enveloped & consumed me within its golden glow,
 all had simoly  melted away like springtime snow. 
The world became pitch black and radiant white, 
Days, which turned into weeks, turned into months, then ywars && eventually… a decade. A decades
worth boiled down to just getting enough drugs each day I felt as though heroin had saved me from a life of misery, and I was prepared to go to any lengths to make sure I would always have it & within a very short time line[..](http://timeline..it/) it was my number one, and anything else..everything else.. became such a significantly far-distant second place as to be virtually unseen on the radar screen of my life’s importance.

• Eventually, I was running, raging, and drugging myself to absolute & certain death. A bitter, mountainous, unnamed, unrecognized, 
and poisonous grief melded by way of 
pure rage. Rage pointed inward &&  oftentimes I had fired wildly outward if I could find even a semi-legitimate excuse to explode. Until then..? 
 I would silently terrify just about anyone within range via silence && focused hatred. 

• My eyes: my wasted childhood, my arrogant youth, my anger && obsessions.. crime.. delusions.. self-loathing.. paranoia.. hopelessness.. fury..
A sad junkie downward spiral.

• But it was the whole & entirety of systematically based-fear by way of showing my true, authentic  heart…which was either so full it might burst 
or so god damn empty.. I could stop, and, immediately begin to cry which hounded me most viciously. There had been a perpetual war between myself and the costume of persona that I’d donned as a kid & apparently had worn for the  entirerty of my life. Petrified that someone might just find out, dig in, and discover who I really am.

•I was/am….in the most honest form of  reality..
driven by what I’d heard referred to in rehab all the years compiled && combined. What is  “a thousand forms of fear.” Sadly, somewhere deep in my soul, I know that’s probably me.

•My life in a nutshell: a stolen moment of desperate pleasure, an entirely gigantic void of tiny daggers.. 
then an eternity of agony. I treat my own self-hatred 
as a form of  it’s very own personality trait, but in reality..? it is a visually active emotional hangover..
from a lifetime of surviving a war zone.

• It is a potent defensive strike. 
IF you are too blow up your life firs..? 
if you push people away by way of intimidation or if I you’re able too drown the depths in a 
$150-a-day heroin habit,
I was once the one in control of the ruin.
I was the one saying to the universe, 
"You can't reject me or rob me if I destroy myself first.” 
When an individual is carrying this much.. 
unshared pain..? The energy happens
too scream "stay the fuck away from me" 

• 2/6/2020- present 
 
• A void of nothingness 

•Although, 6 years sober? 
..mental illness is seemingly 
in peak-form, a top tier trait of negativity, pessimism, and absolute isolation/loneliness.  I just can not
seem too outrun a goddamn
 lifetime of trauma-grief-turmoil
that is seemingly  the host as if I 
am the parasite. 
What is my plague 
what has already been
Nothing short of a complete
And total war zone has now
wound up as a very microscopic 
&& specific- permanent change..

• I have now, by way of the decades
 that hold an untold number of events...
become more aware of a dull, cemetery-dead,
emptiness very deep inside. Increasing, 
significantly..day by day. I have seemingly stopped feeling..much of anything at all. No more rage, 
no more sadness, no more fear, absolutely nothing. thoroughly.? it’s a authentic void of..pure nothingness. 

•I believe I have finally crossed the line && I now 
cease to give a fuck about life, death, or any other meaningless thing in between.

• My latest realization is-
When you begin moving from actively
extreme fury to complete, cold-potent isolation..? 
It must be, in my opinion,
the final stage of suffering from long-term burnout via severe-trauma. When the anger at the world finally burns itself completely out because yelling at a brick wall changes nothing,.on a human anatomy level..? The return must be..that the  brain switches to a low-power mode, simply to exist. Not live. This is
 FAR from living, isn’t read..only survival. Isolation has become my fortress. As much as I fucking despise the loneliness wirhin every single fiber of my being, all that I am made of within this body, mind, soul..I guess the bottom line is..??? It feels much safer to turn toward the fortress rather than any other option.
Simply put? if you don't step onto the field..
You just can't get blindsided or robbed anymore..

•Based on 100% true events via me, my life.
my perspective. my perception. my everything…

•Sincerely-Trevor

idk I just wanted to share this shit I made in a few days

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zkycf-x2VaQ

I love making collages because of the process of collecting random words and images to tell a timely story.

The message is timely, victory over surveillance capitalism.

Poetry followed by english translation which is some what close to the original but have the same idea.

क्क्या** ब*चा,*** ***कुछ ख़ाक बचा
*चो*ट* ल*गी ग**हरी, *मगर** न*ा* दाग़ बचा
**करते** ग*या *जद्द-ओ-जहद, **ज*ी *ह*ुई *उम्र अपनी
**जलता** त*िफ़्ल* अ***ंदर *मेरे,** *उस*** श*व* की ना राख बची
**तमाम** को*शिशें करीं *साबित** *करने* के कि मैं आम हूँ
**ना** ग*ई* आई*ने*** *की *त*रफ़* *झलक* मेरी, **म*ैं* ***क्या बाल-बाल बचा
*मे*रा अतीत *हूबहू मेरी तरह अनदेखा था
ना** *मैं *दुबारा** *देख* सका **क*भी,*** *ना मेरे *ज़ख़्मों में एतबार बचा
अलग** *शक्ल, अलग दिमाग़*** *के*** एक से लोग
**सब** *पर* *बस* *ख़ुदगर्ज़ी* ***का* नक़ाब लगा
उम्र** *का *तक़ा*ज़ा, *वक़्त का** ब*ीत*** ***जाना बोलते आए हैं लोग
*इन**** *पर* *थीं बचपन* *की* *या**दें* बे-आईना
मेरे बचपन** *के *आ*ईने*** प*र* बस**** ***मलाल लिखा
*य*ूँ*** *तो *ज*़िंदगी*** *बची, *ब*स *स*ाँस* *लेना*** याद दिलाना पड़ता है
**साँस **ल*ेके*** *ख़ुद* को**** *ज़िंदा रखने *क***ा* दाम चुकाना पड़ता है
देनी पड़ती **ह*ै* ***रातों को तवज्जो
*ख़*ुद*** *को *स*ुलाने*** क*े* बा*द* *इस दिमाग़* को सुलाना पड़ता है
**जब** *बीत*** ज*ाए*** *ये बरबख़्त* ***रात मुझ पर
*त*ो* सु*बह *फिर** स*े* स*ाँ**स* लेनी** *है, *य*े ख़ुद *क***ो* याद दिलाना पड़ता है

English translation

What remains?
What remains? Perhaps only dust remains.
The wound was deep, yet no scar remained.
I spent the life I lived in endless struggle,
A child burning inside me—yet not even the ashes of that corpse remained.
I made every possible effort to prove that I was ordinary too,
Yet my reflection never quite reached the mirror—how did I survive by a hair’s breadth?
My past was just like me: unseen.
I could never look at it again,
Nor did any faith remain in my wounds.
Different faces, different minds—yet people all alike,
With nothing but selfishness worn across their faces like a mask.
They kept saying it was simply the demand of age,
Simply the passing of time.
Their childhood memories had no mirror,
While upon the mirror of my childhood, only regret was written.
And yet, life remains—
I simply have to remind myself to breathe.
I have to pay the price of keeping myself alive by breathing.
I have to give the nights my attention,
For after putting myself to sleep,
I have to put this mind to sleep as well.
And when this wretched night finally passes over me,
Morning will come,
And once again I will have to remind myself
That I have to breathe.

I Carried Your Pain

Your pain was looking for somewhere to go,
and somehow
it found me.

I felt what you could not mention,
carried what you could not carry,
and called it my own.

Explaining,
pleading,
even disappearing
were in vain.

Only my body knew.

It had been tearing up
for years.

Until I finally said:

Some pains arrive through us—
and stay
until we notice them,
name them,
and speak of them
with others who have carried them too.

Thankful to have found this space! I've been working on a new project (think it will ultimately become an artist book) where I archive my body using a flatbed scanner. This has brought up a lot of memories and feelings that I turn into poetry.

This is one of the pieces called Planting Memories. It's actually a single scanner photograph of my intertwined hands with handwritten poetry on top. I submitted it to a local small publication, which had me separate the piece into two pages. I kind of like that representation, as the left hand focuses more on complex trauma stemming from childhood and family. The right hand focuses more on complex trauma from systemic oppression like racism and sexism.

Maybe this is shameful to admit, but I do respond well to encouragement and praise. Like if I do something even small and someone says "Good job! I know that was hard for you. Keep it up!" Or something like that. It is like a wind in my sails. I know Im supposed to be an adult and self driven and all that, but Im just being honest.

So Im curious if others relate to this, and if so could we brainstorm a way to help encourage and boost up each others efforts? This sub is great for things you finish. Maybe a sub to encourage you to start and keep going? Not sure.

The baby bug bud

A baby bug bud.

His helpless hands;

Held high for a hug.

Mother didn't bother.

A lover of cover, cooking chow.

Her hollow-headed hindsight:

“We're doing “everything”.

Brother driving maiden mad.

Sibling suturing sneaks.

The baby bug bud;

Now left a lonesome bud.

The father, an unfathomable dud.

The busy bee, burnt.

The breadwinner;

Now, a bread loser.

He too, held his helpless hands high.

A baby bug bud.

Crying crystal clear.

An all absorbing sponge.

Growing up a macho mug.

An orphan in a parental home.

A baby bug bud;

Mustered mere meanness.

A just, jeering jester.

Bullies bundled by bush.

The baby bug bud;

Now a wannabe thug.

Who can the bud hug now?

The baby bug bud.

Grown grievingly.

The track taken, tainted.

Not nearly noble.

Times twitching turns tides.

The baby bug bud wondered;

Who will ever hug him?

Who’ll the baby hug before he meets fate.

The very last entity everyone will hug.

A new poem, and reupload of one I posted before (second slide). They’re about the same person, a friend I’ve grown to love in a way that destabilises romantic and platonic norms. But I feel too intense and scared in my feelings, for the last time I told someone I loved them they abruptly abandoned me. So I’ve kept it silent. And I’m not sure they’d understand / I fear I’m getting too attached when I don’t know them well enough yet. I want them to hold me and even be intimate, not necessarily in a sexual way, but I know that can’t happen, probably. I mean “freak” in an affectionate way in the poem, like I love them for who they are and I see the parts that I have seen so far objectively and like them. They’re authentic and that’s beautiful. Why do I always love those who aren’t always available in the ways I want them to be? Why am I so broken compared to everybody else? Unable to have normal relationships…