Our experiences of pain are as worthy of validation as are our experiences of love and joy. One big error that people make is to repress and ignore the pain.  They do not realise that when they do this, they repress much of the joy and love with it.  Everyone's childhood is full of joys and sorrows, whether they acknowledge it or not.  When we can grow to accept both together as part of our reason for existence is when we begin to live in abundance.  The stages of deep trauma surface each individual in their own unique way.  There is no deadline in transcending the past, only inevitable changes that will occur due to how we choose to embrace or postpone the realities of how we allowed it to affect our personal power.











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The Facade/Iron Wall

Confident, loud
Bright, proud.
Until the lights go out.
Small, sad
Hurting, mad.
She curls into herself.

Fun seeking,
Loving life.
She struts throughout the land.
Wanting love,
Scared of it.
She cries when none are there.

Loved by all
Loving all
She manages to fool herself and all.
But get too close
She lashes out
To protect her Iron Wall.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

All comments are greatly appreciated negative or positive. I love to know what people think of my work.

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Just because someone looks fine on the outside
Doesn't mean they have nothing to hide
Doesn't mean they're not dying inside

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Post, post, post away all the things that I want to say

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I feel alike to hosts of boils,
fevers and an alkaline rash.
A viscous scrub with bristle brush
can't rid me of this filthy sway.
A scream unclean as I draw nearer
to the town and county squares and posts;
fled away from, maybe spat on,
and left so wary of heels-a-patter.
I'll shield myself beneath the cover
of many hoods all different colors,
and hope that none may catch a glimpse
of me beneath in a festering cloud.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Boo hoo woe is me blah blah.

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Under the Knife



There's beauty!
Where? Beneath the flab,
Peel off the clothes,
Pull back the fat.
Reveal the gaunt and twisted thing
That dwelt beneath the ghastly skin.
Tie back the hair, reveal the face,
Beneath the gore resides our case,
The masterpiece we'll call our own;
The girl that hid within the crone.
Our eyes are sharp,
Our knives are keen,
She'll hardly even feel a thing as we
mold and sculpt beneath the skin.

And when we're done,
What pride she'll feel!
This face we give that isn't real
Will bless her with true love for life,
Until the Belle begins to fade,
And then once more she'll need our blade.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem a while ago, I've been working on it for a while. I haven't been to for nearly five years, I haven't been writing much at all... I'm hoping to change that, and posting this is the first step. :-) Critique desperately desired. :P

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