I Loved You

I loved you
like water
like the grass
like liquid mercury
inside of blown glass

i loved you
like soft snow
and meditations,
like you were
the chosen one.

i loved you
inside cages
on rooftops
where lilies grew
through rock quarries.

i loved you
innocently like lambs,
openly like rain clouds
demanding the
sun come out
i loved you.

i loved you
like disease accustomed to,
like rabid dog bites
oozing with foam
because the pain
had become my home.

i loved you
somewhere in the distance,
like tart lemons
and bitter beer faces,
i loved you,
and then i loved another.

i loved another,
like the same as you,
same habits,
same stench,
same brick walls,
trapped inside the absence.

i loved another,
like more tears on baby cheeks,
more bruises on scraped knees
like open wounds
and belly screams on
roller coaster rides,
i loved another,
and then i loved me.

i loved me,
like acceptance,
and purity,
and mistakes.
like wistful memories,
and regrets,
like fading sunsets.

i loved me,
like imperfection,
and joyful smiles,
like yearning
and fighting,
constantly running,
to keep from hiding,
i loved me,
now i love them.

i love them
like learning,
like figuring it out,
and compassion.
like accepting the afterlash
of my actions.

i love them,
like hope
like understanding choices,
like intent of thought,
like harsh truth,
from singing voices.

i love them,
because i loved you,
who taught me to love another,
until i learned to love me,
so i could love them.

(written 1/11/2011)



Vennie Kocsis is the best-selling author of Cult Child and other publications. She is a also a poet and hostess of the podcast Survivor Voices Show.



And in the end
All she wanted
Was her own piece
Of heaven
Where her chest didn’t feel heavy
Where smiles felt real
And she could be free
Away from the ache left
From picking up shards
Of her beautiful heart

Vennie Kocsis is the best-selling author of Cult Child and the hostess of Survivor Voices Show and her live Sunday broadcast Off the Cuff. She is an advocate, poet and artist.

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


After cult life I
Know what it’s like
Run across the road
In the dark night
Steal vegetables
From the neighboring farm

And it harm none
Mama formed the mission
Holding her Bible
A glory soaked misfit

Cold seeped doorways
On an old trailer
In lot Number seven
Piling up blankets
Summers fanning heat

There was no heaven
In our empty stomachs
Or a cruel mother who
Stood us in the welfare line

She was too ashamed
To carry the box
With the cheese blocks

Public Humiliation
Public Assistance
Poverty Resistance

There was no difference
Between dark and light skin
Not in the dusty neighborhood
I was a teenager in

We all knew the same sadness
The lonely, nights
Listening to the drunken fights
Echoing from Lot number six

The one road that divided us
We crossed it anyways
No moat could kill connection
Of like mind interaction

With them I found soul
First bi-level hair cut
I learned the shuffle
The southern hustle

Our skin color
Had no relevance
To each other
Because we had in common
The struggle of poverty

“What would you buy
If you won the lottery?”

“Back to life
Back to reality”

I didn’t know
What that meant to me


I was just surviving

And memories of the after life
When things should’ve been better
Are sometimes harder
To remember because they’re


And my keys are more tired
Than my fingers
But the lingering remnants
Drop from their tips
As I tell the rest of it

There are stories
Filling seasons and I
Feel their festering
Where once I had to dive
Now they willingly rise

Exploding, bursting to tell
How one little girl
escaped human hell

Where comfort
Should have rang
I clanked my
Poverty bell

vennie kocsis