Alone At Sea

What wistful ways
Lovers dance
Eyes intense
Falling into trance
Bent like trees
Branches extended
Their adoration
Never ending

What an invisible life
Hovering slightly above
Glancing below
I never thought I’d
Wince at humans
Holding hands with
Such bonded elegance

She searched the earth
In caves resting
In more caves her
Hands empty
Holding dust
And aloneness

The human aches
I wish I could soothe her
Become form
Hold her close so she
Can feel chosen
Just once but
She is destined
For solitude and
Strangers wandering
In and out as though
Her heart is a brick door

Young she will escape
Finish this cycle soon
Return home where her
Legs don’t ache
From running and her
Ears won’t ring
From screaming where
Her breath becomes
A blanket wrapped tight
So she can sleep.

Now we float
Between these worlds
We see through;
Beyond and between
Beneath and inside
Smiles and tears
We cry and

Who can take
Into their hands
Such fragile existence
As ours
Who can be so worthy
Of this synergy
Spun, we rung the bells
Vibrational wind spells

Not all that exists
Is intended
Some is pretended
And this circle of
Light’s pure amethyst
Serves and protects us

What immortal ways
Lovers recycle each other
Like magnets we cannot
Avoid the passings
Broken rafts afloat a sea
Leaving mystery to
Be discovered
By another

©VennieKocsis.com

When Writing Out Trauma Is Crippling

A wise person once said, “There are three things you should never share; your relationship, your finances and your next move.”

It has become a mantra for my life.   Years of being both vulnerable and held back at the wrong times have left me speculating my own judgment.  Being alone is safer, away from the possibility of re-victimization.

I learned harsh lessons as I grew up. With no boundaries to define danger or relationships I was tossed out of a childhood that had been riddled with abuse straight into the very society I had been trained to fear, hate and one day even war against in the name of God.

With blinders on, I ran towards everything I’d been taught was sin.  I bathed in it.  I dove inside of it like it was a swimming pool.  I became prey, a seal pup in an ocean full of sharks.

A couple of nights ago, while working on “Rise of Sila“, the sequel to “Cult Child“, I had to write a trauma memory.  I had to get into the details of it, part of them being a time my sister wore long sleeves to hide the bruises her rapist left on her upper arms.    When I was finished with the section, nausea swept through me quickly, suddenly and filled my mouth with water to the point I had to curl up on my bed and do focus breathing until it passed.

Fuck.”  I thought.  “It’s starting.”

This is what happened while I was writing “Cult Child“.  The trauma surfaced in waves, and with it came years of sporadic vomiting, night terrors, migraines, days in bed weeping, high peaks of anxiety and agoraphobia and a lot of deep isolation.

I smiled in selfies to post on the Internet. I spun on the positivity pole as if I was the poster child of survival, and I hid the reality of how crippling writing trauma is for me.

I thought I would feel some kind of relief after getting “Cult Child” out.   Yet, I didn’t.  I felt incredibly proud of myself that I had accomplished the project.  I also felt an extreme exhaustion that still lingers as I continue on.   I feel weakened.  I feel that I have only spilled out a sliver of the truth about the reality that was my childhood.

Last night I had a dream which rocked me. When I woke up this morning, the emotions of the dream came hazily with it bringing short, flash images of children milling about, a lot of confusion and an inability to grasp the rest of the images.  There are no worse dreams for me to have, than the ones which involve children.  They take the longest to shake from my eyes and the hardest to re-balance my heart from.   [Click here to visit my Dreamscape category where I document them.]

I am pushing myself, because this story must be told.  It has to be left behind so my sons and lineage will have documentation of their ancestral life.  I have to tell the truth for myself, hoping that maybe, just maybe, after I am finished, there will be some reprieve.

But, right now, in this moment, I just feel like avoiding.

Stream of Consciousness | 1.6

duality / what an odd position / to both / thrive in solitude / drown in aloneness / behind the smile / an ache / that never goes away / arms to hold me / are shadows / only visible / in night dreams / clutching pillows / i have landed / on a planet / of shallow waves / a place / unfamiliar / far away from / beneath my sea / blue washes / my soft cheeks / they will / always leave / when the storms / get deep / no matter how much / the voices plead / stay / stay / don’t go away / but i am here / inside the gray / looking for realms / where the otherkin stay / i could leave today / make it a forever / would they say / i miss her / she was / a good kisser / survived / so much shit / it left a / mental sickness / i am weary of / being food for / the wicked / if i must / sleep alone / in this valley / let the ghosts rally / twist me / into cocoons / taking me / home soon / so tired / spirit endings ache / too much heartbreak / makes the body bend / until the moon / says it’s the end / and she / releases the tides for my / mothership to arrive / i float invisible / in a world of / crooks and cars / i won’t / make it far / unless i / start running now / i just / don’t know how

There Is Not Always Gain With Pain

I have been in physical pain for two weeks now. I pulled a hip muscle while out jogging. I attempted to leap a stair and failed horribly. This pain is ebbing and flowing. My kidney was questionable, but after some examinations, I find my immune system is deeply fighting this injury and pain.

I am frustrated. One way I work to keep my mental health intact is to clear my head through exercise. This pain has forced me to take medication I don’t really want in my body. It’s forced my body to a halt. It has been exacerbated by moments I had no choice but to use my hip muscle, like walking through the airport to send my granddaughter back home. Like walking in general.

Aside from already dealing with anxiety from the airport lines, one line at the ticket counter, the other at the security check, my granddaughter and I were allowed a pass around the body scanner, and when I told the Caucasian security guard that my brown skinned son was with me and my safe person, he ignored me, making my son stay in line anyway to go through the scan machine. I did not like how that made me feel. My son has a way of laughing off people’s stupidity. I admire that ability.

Today, I am stuck with my legs propped up beneath me to raise them up and try to relieve my back pain. I have cold compresses beneath my back.

Pain pushes me into depression and frustration. It puts my life on halt. It arrives unexpectedly. Usually, I move through physical pain head first. I have dealt with it since childhood. In some ways it just becomes a part of my living. Yet, because of the longevity of this hip muscle strain, being on week three now, I feel utterly exhausted.