Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

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The Doll Knows

Published on July 1, 2009 in Anxiety, Depression, Emotions, Fear, Grief Sadness Loss, Poetry, PTSD and Secrets and Confessions. 0 Comments

Baby Doll

In hair of silk laid in curls my tears do drip and saturate

She knows, for she has seen my frightened soul collapse into plush open arms

As I hide my face in a lacy dress from past visions still with me.

The doll knows

She knows with button eyes and pursed pink lips that I

I am but a fearful child.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Copyright 2009-10 Sundrip Journals All Rights Reserved

In My Hands

Published on May 18, 2009 in Art, Poetry, PTSD and Therapy. 2 Comments

The first two paintings are multi-media. They’re acrylic and coloured pencil on paper. The third is the same with several digital enhancements.  I like the middle one best because the hands are so large with hearts in the middle. I think I’m finally okay with the original art therapy piece (shown first in the series). I think I’ve painted out the worst of it.So here it is, this is how I painted the pain to a manageable level.

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As your child I had no power at all.  Continue reading ‘In My Hands’

Poem: Let Me Grow

Published on March 3, 2009 in Poetry. 3 Comments

let me grow
wild and free
beyond walls and mountains
up, through and far afield.

let me grow with a frenzy
like waves wrestling to the shore line
like an army marching to victory
in the name of The King and His cause

let me go.
let me grow.

.

fma  – inspired by this photograph

Saturday, February 21, 2009

Copyright 2009 F. Magdalene Austin – All rights reserved

Once You Leave

Published on February 27, 2009 in Abuse, Art Therapy, Emotional abuse, Poetry and PTSD. 0 Comments

This is about her getting out of my head.

I’ll be okay once you leave.

I’ll walk down my own path, once you leave.

I’ll see flowers for what they are, maybe even stop to smell a few

When you’re no longer here over my shoulder reminding me I have no right to breathe.

I’ll be okay once you leave.

F. Mag

Permission

Published on February 24, 2009 in Art, Borderline Personality Disorder, Poetry and Therapy. 1 Comment

We talked about cutting and why I feel like I need it. We talked about almost feeling proud of the scars until I have to show them. Wednesday afternoon I have a physical with a doctor I don’t even know. He’s going to hold my hands, open my mouth and touch me. He’s going to ask about old scars and new ones.

I only feel ashamed of this when I have to talk to people about it. Their immediate reaction is, oh you shouldn’t hurt anymore. You’ve been through enough. It’s not like I don’t get that on a certain level. Part of cutting is punishment but part of it is for relief. It feels like a forbidden romance.

I told Dr. D about a poem I wrote for Blossom a long time ago. It’s about how if I feel pushed not to cut then I want to even more. It’s about people not being able to fix me and change not taking place unless change is desired. It’s about why I cut and being torn between what others want me to do for myself and what I feel I need to keep going.

Continue reading ‘Permission’

Ice

Published on February 1, 2009 in Art, Pets and Poetry. 0 Comments Tags: , .

When ice falls from the roof top to the stones below it sounds like a window has been shattered.

When the furnace starts it sounds like a drum roll announcing a symphony.

When I lay my ear on Brody’s chest,
The way I use to with my brother,
Called to mind is the sound of purity.

Good shatters bad.
Purity’s herald is a symphony.

STORY: I Will Watch Over You

Published on January 16, 2009 in Poetry and PTSD. 0 Comments Tags: .

The Watcher pulls the covers to my shoulders and strokes the hair from my face.
“I’ll be in the other room if you need anything. Sleep well.”
“Will you stay?”

She pulls an old throw over her legs and sits in the chair that should have been tossed several years back. I can’t bring myself to do it though. There’s something soothing about that big old brown chair with kitty cat claw marks, coffee stains and other age spots. So I keep it, right there in the corner of the room. Sturdy, aged and proud, it sits beside a brass floor lamp that illuminates its precious position. And now my Watcher has positioned herself comfortably in it, for the night will be long and certainly difficult. Continue reading ‘STORY: I Will Watch Over You’