Born Crazy: A Video Poem

You’re crazy.”

How often have you heard this phrase thrown around, either flippantly, in jest or to victim blame someone who has overcome or is recovering from abuse?

I heard this often as a post-cult teenager and well into my adult years. While I was actually dealing with the behavioral aftermath of being an extremely abused child, instead of receiving support, caring and nurturing I was told that I was crazy. When a child is told enough times that they’re mind is insane, we begin to believe it.

This poetry piece is from my spoken word album, Dusted Shelves, which is available on Amazon in paperback and c.d. Written in 2013, it is a representation of a life by which I was conditioned to believe that I was crazy.

Some abuse survivor work is considered to be dark and oddly psychotic. This piece would fall under that theme.

**Trigger Warning for those who are sensitive to these themes**

Born Crazy

Kaleidoscope

So much to say,
Once held back
By attacks I
Retrace my tracks
As silently they
Watch and wait.

It won’t dissipate.
Fear is an illusion.
I invite these intrusions
To include truth
Even if it hurts you.

Surgery is painful
To the human skin.
Ignoring the wound
We can rot from within,
Until we travel
Into the core
Where the bruises
Feel sore;
Where it smarts
In the center of the heart.

Still we must start
Somewhere;
Must lay it all bare,
Stare it in the eyes,
Avoid denials and
Dive into the places
That hold the aching.

Hush, my baby,
It’s okay to cry.
Here’s my shoulder.
I’ll wipe your eyes.
I’ll believe your stories
And hold your tears.
Inside this liquid
It’s safe here.

My soul is a monastery.
My heart is a choir.
If I must sing
To ignite the fire
Then let the chords
Be absorbed
In molecules and phrases
That disengage us.

Kaleidoscope
So full of hope,
So etched with worry
It smothers the sound.
If you continue to run
How can you ever be found?
If you keep closing your eyes
You’ll forever be blind.

I speak with home.
She tells me to shout,
Embrace the newness,
Expel the doubt,
And somewhere in between
It will all be found out

Even if the guns resound
In the hopes to drown me out;
Even if all that’s left
Is a stem
A string of what once was me
I will still be shining,
Floating infinity.

Vennie Kocsis
venniekocsis.com