Famous Poetry about Abuse that is so touching when Read

Famous Poetry about Abuse that is so touching when Read.

Poetry about Abuse: Abuse poems are among the rarest poems you can think of. Here on this spot, I will give you a list of poems that are filled with inspiration about abuse. 

• Misplaced Dominance
• Looking Up
• Cold
• Power (The Upper Hand)
• Obsolete
• Mr Xanax
• Love felt foreign
• Triggers
• The Feeling
• White Flags

Abuse poems from famous poets and best abuse poems to feel good. Most beautiful abuse poems were ever written. Read all poems for abuse.

Misplaced Dominance

I thought I wasn’t over it
but I just needed to give you closure –
an explanation of my sickness
and why i had to say, “it’s over”.

you would think it was your own sickness
that drove me to rediscover mine –
not the ways you would block the door,
desperate for more time.

the way you gripped my wrists
as you threw me on the bed
misplacing the once comforting dominance,
and making a mess of my head..

someone who was once so safe
and so gentle with his touch
turned into a frightening, scary version
of someone i try not to think about much.

i know that wasn’t you that day,
or maybe it was you all along;
i try not to remember much about that version of you,
but it was then that you taught me to be strong

crime scene love story

crime scene love story
my skin feels two things:
your skin, and cold porcelain
i’ll be quiet, i promise
even as you’re tying me up with
the vein you cut from my neck

all i wanted was for you to notice
the blood under my nails, but you
only saw the stains she left on
your neck

i promise after tomorrow i will
still be quiet, even as you crush
my bones and dissolve them
in tea

i am sorry that i mothered you,
and that my mother never taught me
how to love, or breathe air that didn’t
contain you

if only my mother could see her
daughter now, with her heart in your
throat, and your arms turning
her into rotten skin

tell her this is not a crime scene
this is where we fell in love.

By Sage F

Looking Up

Pigs can’t look up at the sky
Not while they’re standing
The anatomy of their neck muscles
Doesn’t let them look totally upwards
They can strain and they can pull
But their noses will never meet clouds
I am a pig on her way to the slaughter
Straining and pulling
I cannot look upwards
Unless I’m lying down

There was a father
A man much too far away
Someone more than merely a man
Someone I could not hear nor see
Because my eyes are those of a mortal
I am nothing but an animal in a pen
And I simply cannot look up to the heavens to see Him
So I listen to others speak of Him
I read about Him in books written for me
And I hope that He can somehow hear me

There was a father
A man that would beat his piglets
He wrung my legs until I could not stand
And so I could do nothing
But look up at him from the mud, begging
He was the only father I knew
But my eyes were blinded, out of focus
By a sun I was not used to seeing
So I blindly trusted him
What else is a piglet supposed to do?

There was a father
A man that loved the pen openly
Loved his children and his piglets
He would take me from the mud
And hold me belly-up to the sky at night
So I could marvel at the stars
So I could squeal prayers to the moon
He saw my bruises and my scars
He told me I was more than a piglet
He told me I was a boar with tusks

I should have known I couldn’t trust a father
I trusted him with the hurt, the longing
The secrets I nursed hidden from others’ eyes
He taught me what it meant to trust
He was my father when I was crying out for one
He made me forget
That I have never needed a father
And I certainly don’t need my father
Asking to hogtie me for photos
Asking if I’d want that from him

I should have known I couldn’t trust a father
The father of my blood chipped my hooves
He made my snout bleed
I was so young and so helpless
I didn’t know that this was not was love is
When he finally left, I went searching
Yearning for something to fill the gap
That had never housed compassion to begin with
But I was never taught to sense danger
You don’t notice red flags when your world is red

I should have known I couldn’t trust a father
The father of my spirit has abandoned me
I spent years giving stone-faced lies to saints
Pretending I was close to Him
Passing fictional poetry for testimony
Hiding my doubt in empty metaphors
Nobody noticed that I was lying on the ground
Staring up at the sky in hopes of seeing
Of catching a glimpse of my father
It’s no surprise that I gave up

I don’t need a father figure
Because I can’t look up to anyone
Not as long as I’m standing

By shelly

Cold

This world has been cold to me
The wind bites at my skin
Because life had left me stripped bare
I was shivering, begging
For someone to hold me
But when people got too close
I held them an arm’s length away

But you pushed through

Your hands were hot, burning
Your fingers curled around my body
Holding me against your palms
And if I got too cold
You gripped me tighter
I needed the warmth
Or I might have died

You made me need your warmth
your warmth
“These people,” you said
“They can’t keep you warm”
“They’re as cold as the wind,” you said
“They are using you for your warmth”
When I got too close to them
You gripped me tighter

You said things, did things
That made me question you
Sometimes, you dug your nails into my skin
You gripped me so tightly I couldn’t breathe
“Your neck is cold,” you would say
“Let me warm you”

When I asked you to stop
And god forbid I asked you to say sorry
You would take your warmth away
“Good luck in the cold,” you said
Time and time again
“They can’t keep you warm like I can”

I could not breathe
Your hands were becoming just as cold
As the wind that left me
Shivering in the first place
I could only think of one way to escape
But I was too much of a coward to follow through
So I was sent to a prison
As miserable as the one I was in
But not quite as cold

But **** me for returning
You dug your nails into my skin
Gripped me until my arms bruised
You brought your knuckles to my eye
And then you cried
You sobbed on the floor when I told you
That I didn’t need your warmth anymore

I’m sorry
But I’d rather be cold

By shelly

Power (The Upper Hand)

He ripped off my clothes
It’s the way life goes
Those who have the power
Will naturally wield it

When he finally had me naked
He found I wore a chastity belt
Alas, he had no key
I was smart enough to swallow it

So he never got inside me
The way that he had planned
Those who have the power
Don’t always have the upper hand
that time that I had the upper hand…

By Beckie Davies

Obsolete

“How can all your beauty be obsolete?” He typed
I closed the messenger and sat for few moments.
Collecting myself.
Breathing deeply.
I open and go to respond “ it’s obsolete when the person you’re in love with, is more in love with a substance than you.”
I am tired of biting my tongue.
I protected you, I tried to save you. All you did was drag my through the dirt hoping I’d fall in love with your snow angels too.
I hate it break it to you, but now you’re down two, and in the end I really hope it’s jailhouse justice for you.
#failedmarriage #trauma #abuse #romance #drugstw

By Cole Stranger

Mr Xanax

It is quiet in this big house,
The loneliness is magnified
The silence is astoundingly loud
Addiction knocks on the door
It doesn’t matter if I don’t let him in
He’s always had a spare key
Silently he slips in
Hello old companion
“Mr Xanax, how are you today?”
“I am fine”, he replies
“And I am going to make you feel fine”
#drugs #substance #abuse #addiction #depression #personification

By AS

Love felt foreign

Before I met the man I love,
I had a bad history of
entering abusive relationships.

It might not make sense,
but a healthy relationship
used to be so much scarier
than an abusive one.

When my ex got angry,
he would hit me.

When my boyfriend gets angry,
he walks away until
he’s calm enough to have
a rational conversation.

my ex was predictable.
I knew what was coming.
I could brace myself
for his punches.
I was never unprepared.

The first time that my boyfriend
walked away, my body
physically shook with fear.

Because he didn’t hit me,
and because violence
was all that I knew,

I was so afraid that
he would come back
with something much
worse than a punch.

He came back with a hug
and an “I love you.”

now, I would be afraid
if a man tried to hit me.

it might sound strange,
but I am so happy
to be so scared

because that means
I’ve stopped wanting abuse.

it means I’ve finally realized
that I am deserving of love.

By Sarah Flynn

Triggers

the scent of eucalyptus
smells like trauma

and rooms with purple walls
are challenging to breathe in

and occasionally, I meet
someone whose voice
flies straight through
my ears and rushes
to my memories.
I can’t hear them.
I can only hear my past.

I know that
to anyone who
doesn’t know me,
I am confusing.

you can tie me up
and **** me hard.
I like the pain.

but touch my feet,
and I will attack you.

and I won’t warn you.
I won’t tell you that once,
an ex broke nine of my toes
so I couldn’t run away.
you’ll never know.

you can smoke
standing next to me.
it wont bother me.
I smoke too.

but move your hand
a little too fast
while you’re holding
a lit cigarette or joint,
and I will attack you.

and I won’t warn you.
I won’t show you
the cigarette burn scars
that he left on my skin.
you’ll never know.

you can take me to a
concert where the bass
shakes the floor.
I’d love that.
the noise doesn’t
bother me at all.

but there are some tunes
that practicing musicians
sometimes play on the drums.
play those, and
I will attack you.

and I won’t warn you.
I won’t tell you that
my ****** was in a band.
he was their drummer;
maybe he still is.
you’ll never know.

I panicked once
in my sleep, and the man
who I fell in love with
tried to comfort me.
I didn’t recognize him.

by the time I did,
he had blood on his shirt
dripping from his nose.
I had blood on my knuckles.

I didn’t want to hurt him.
I don’t want to hurt
anyone who I love.
I don’t want to attack you, or
have to warn you that I might.’

I’m not violent, I swear.
that isn’t me.
I would never hurt you.

but for a moment,
when I hear or taste or
smell or see something
that triggers me,
that isn’t me.

it’s my body, yes,
but it’s not me inside.
I have retreated deep
inside of myself,
and all that’s left
is a hollow shell
made of my skin.

for a moment, I become
a person trying to survive a
threat that is no longer there.

for a moment, I won’t know
that it’s you. I won’t see you or
feel you or hear you talking to me.

because for a moment,
you smell like trauma.

for a moment, you make it
challenging to breathe.

for a moment,
my brain won’t register
that you are you.

all you are to me
in those moments
is another danger.

I don’t want to hurt you.
it’s the opposite.

I want to escape so that
you can’t hurt me.

By Sarah Flynn

The Feeling

I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
My past lingers over me, and hangs in the room like a thick cloud.
It engulfs me, and holds me tighter than I would like.
I am 23 years old, and I can still feel it.
Feel what you ask.
I can feel the room.
The four blank walls with a thick coat of dark paint.
Sadness and fear are the only things that hang on these walls.
I feel the coldness and the emptiness that contains the room.
They join me as I sit on the single object in the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can hear it.
Hear what you ask.
I can hear the foot prints of the individual household members.
I can tell you the exact point that they are located in the room.
I can tell you what mood they are in.
I can hear their voices, and their whispers about me.
I can hear how close they are.
Sometimes, I can hear the crisp sound of the lock being moved.
My shuffles into the darkness echo in the room.
My silent pleads of escaping can be heard running around the room.
I am 23 years old, and I can still smell it.
I can still smell the sour stench of the room.
The smell coats the room.
It drapes itself on every crevice.
I can smell myself, after being trapped here for days.
I can smell the sickness from my stomach, because I haven’t ate for days.
I can smell the individual tears that have kissed the floor.
I can smell the blood from one too many beatings.
I am 23 years old, and it will forever haunt me.
The memories of being in this room are old, but they will stick with me forever.
They never hesitate to welcome me with open arms.
They taunt me whenever they please.
I am 23 years old, and I cannot escape it.
#truth #story #horror #secrets #abuse #listen #life #help #biography
Cara Anne Kollwitz

By Cara Anne Kollwitz

White Flags

trigger warning: abuse

Here it is again,
that familiar feeling
of subjugation

bruised wrists
lips
hips
so desperately missing that aching sensation,
the one which shows that he loves you
enough to use your body as a canvas
for his masterpieces

but this time
you fight back

and this angers him
for your body is not small
enough

to fit in the
the palm of his hand

he tries

but your long curls spill from his palm
and wrap around his arms,
slithering upwards
tightening around his neck

eyelashes like blades
carving and scraping out each artery
one by one

seas of cellulite gushing
and flooding into his
mouth

submerging him deep
under the rivers
of your divine revulsion

he usually isn’t the type of man
to surrender

but the way roaring screams are
being ripped from his throat
and the way his usually
black eyes transform
into white flags
prove that
you are strong enough to
change everything.
#abuse #hate #power #love #surrender #strength #relationship

By Emily

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Daily Time Poems.