Poetry

Imagery & Poetry

Today was a somewhat long day. I woke up and I had to take migraine medication. I also had an early counseling appointment. We are doing “imagery” or something. Anyways, it’s where you pick a “safe space” and imagine it whenever you want to relax. Today, my counselor suggested we do just the imagery exercise after I told her I had a headache. Before we started this, I had written a poem to help me relax and get whatever it was on my mind at the time… off my mind. I am sometimes not so great at writing poems and I end up just writing words. This time, I wanted to create an image to erase another image–a not so great image that I had. Creating this image helped me to relax and clear my mind. Just like this morning. It was so relaxing that when I opened up my one eye for a moment to scan the room, I noticed my counselor had fallen asleep *teehee* All I have to say is that, imagery, it works.

Here is the poem.

As I lie here, my mind drifts away
Like a message in the bottle
Deep into a clear blue sea
A million little pebbles
I can feel the sand beneath me
Sparkling like a million little stars
It’s warmth embracing my body
Gently crawling along the shore
I can hear the ocean’s waves
Gracefully rolling back
Back into the clear blue sea
A beach’s breeze playing with my hair
Letting strands tickle my cheeks
I lay there, smiling under the sun
Children playing, laughing, giggling
*splash splash splash*
A bird’s song can be heard
Just off into the distance, as distant as my mind
Like these pictures I had when I shut my eyes
Lying beneath him, breathless, motionless
These images naked and unseen.

You can ask what the poem is about or you can make an inference for your self.

Advertisements

World Suicide Prevention Day

I previously posted today about a book that I just recently finished. This book really hit home for me because I could relate. In a dark way, I had attempted suicide just like the author. On a lighter side, I used to hope for love. Again, just like the author.

Today, I decided to write a poem. Poems really work for me. I never really paid much attention to them until I realized that I could get how I felt out on paper. Even if nobody understood what I was trying to say or even if nobody read them, it just felt good.

Also I write this poem because of World Suicide Prevention Day that occurred this weekend. I thought about going to this but then I didn’t think it was really all that constructive for me. This being that I still missed my those close to me who died because of suicide. I probably should have went. I maybe could have met some people who were in similar situations but gathered positive support. Anyways, I wrote this poem in also memory of a medicine man whom I met right after my first attempted suicide. He has passed and I sometimes miss him.

I write this poem because of what the medicine man said to me after I visited with him. He told me that people who die by suicide are left in limbo. I had no idea what limbo meant. I was thinking he meant the cool party game and was thinking “What the!?! What is this man saying talking about limbo.” I asked my mom after I met with him what limbo was because, I added, that’s where Adam told me I would have went. She told me it was a dark place here on earth. Neither heaven or hell. I didn’t believe in either heaven or hell to begin with but all of a sudden I knew what this medicine man was talking about and it wasn’t a cool party game anymore.

Here is the poem I wrote today after collecting my thoughts over the course of reading the book by Yvonne Johnson and reflecting on her experiences and my own.

Please note, this is not a cry for help this just a way to express what was given to me: what I thought death was and what I was taught where suicide would put me. I understand that each person has their own opinions and views, this is just a way for me to share what I was taught. To those that I lost to suicide or self-inflicted deaths, I pray that they are not stuck in “limbo” like the medicine man had said. I pray that they are in a better place.

If you feel suicidal or have thoughts of harming yourself or wanting to die, please call your local distress line, suicide prevention lifeline, or kids help phone.

Suicide

My heart bleeds red
My tears run dry
The pain is real
I just want to die
I pray to the Creator
to take me in my own sleep
Right in my own bed
To wake up in heaven
just like my friend
I wonder what people will say
When I wake up dead
My message to them:
Don’t be angry
Don’t wonder why
My pain will be gone
Just like my friend
Then I met Him.
He told me,
I will be gone but
I will be wandering
Right beside my friend
My heart will not bleed but
I won’t have to hide
There will be no heaven
No creator by my side
Each time it rains
My tears will not run dry
Here on earth
Wandering all alone
Right beside my friend
Nobody will see me
And my pain won’t be gone
My pain will live on through
My family and friends
My own pain, my own death,
My suicide.

Again, If you feel suicidal or have thoughts of harming yourself or wanting to die, please call your local distress line, suicide prevention lifeline, or kids help phone.

A poem I wrote…

This is a poem I wrote after I started counseling after being in an abusive relationship. In this poem, I describe (briefly) the nightmares I was having.

Untitled

Flying through the air
Superhero powers
Small doors monster people
Dreaming to see nothing
Upon awakening
Broken sweat dry tears
All by myself
In the dark
Save me from my dreams
My life is a nightmare

A poem: Here I am

This is a poem I wrote on the weekend.

Poem Title: Here I am

Here I am
It is warm outside
Sitting by the window
Is the only warmth from the sun
But it is cold inside
Cold door, cold walls
Cold blankets, cold floor
The floor is filled with pebbles
That are not really there
Black, orange, grey
Reminds me of the beach
Without any water
Now, my mouth is dry
“Excuse me miss
Sorry to bother you
But can I have some water”
You don’t have to say it
I already know it
You don’t really want to be here
I don’t want to be here either
But I have no choice
They have taken my clothes
My shirt, my pants, my socks,
my underwear
And my shoes
My ankle almost broken
Swollen and sore
I can’t have any ice
But I don’t mind
Because here I am
I’ve counted the stars
Same ones over and over again
Whoever said you can’t count the stars
That lie in the sky
Didn’t see the world from a window
Six feet above their bed
I have watched the sunrise
And the sunset
From inside my own head
But I don’t mind
Because here I am
It is cold outside
It is warm inside
Back on the other side
In my own bed

A poem dedicated to fear…

This is a poem I wrote after an abusive relationship ended that I was in for about 1.5 years. Before this relationship, I used to be one of those girls that would wonder why girls stayed in abusive relationships, and ask those same girls… “What don’t you just leave?”

An abusive relationship is more than just waking up and leaving the next day. He hits you, calls you names… Then he tells you he is sorry, and will make it up to you. You spend days and nights in bliss and masked happiness. Then, it happens all over again…He hits you, calls you names.

You just hope one day that it won’t happen ever again and that you give him one more chance. You begin to believe that maybe he is right: everything is all your fault. His bursts of anger, really are your fault. You become so broken that you don’t even know what the difference between right and wrong is anymore. You used to believe that violence against women is wrong, but now that you are the one being hit, dragged, pushed, spit on… you believe that what you are experiencing is not as worse as what other women are experiencing–others have it worse. You begin to make excuses for his actions, reasoning with yourself. Yet, little do you know, is that he has you right where he wants you: boxed up, in the corner all alone, no where to go.

I knew that this relationship had a hold onto my life even after it ended. I knew this because living in a small community, we would run into each other every now and then (even if we didn’t want to) and I would experience anxiety each time. My heart would race every time I saw him, and not the romantic-movie-heart-racing type. This would happen even if I thought I saw him, and in the end it was just a stranger that looked like him. I remember one incident, when he came into one of my places of employment. He said to me, “It’s okay, you don’t have to be scared.” Then he smiled at me with a wink. It sent chills down my spine, and still does to recall that incident. He knew. He knew I was scared, and he knew I was still scared of him.

Even after I moved away to a different city, I would sometimes feel my stomach turn over when I see a vehicle that looks like his. I was still scared even knowing that he physically wasn’t around me. Today, I have worked through this hard time and have been able to move forward in a positive direction. This poem I wrote and I dedicated it to fear.

A poem dedicated to fear.

Reaching towards you
In the pitch darkness,
Feeling nothing,
Hearing nothing,
Knowing your there,
Standing,
Watching,
Your eyes piercing,
My chest.
I feel it tightening,
Wanting to run,
Feet glued to the ground.
In one spot,
No where to go,
Fear.

Note: I write this post to anyone who has experienced violence…whether as a witness or a victim/survivor. Male, female. It doesn’t matter. Violence against anyone is wrong. I share my story and my experiences because I want others to know that it is okay to get help, and that any amount of violence no matter how many times it occurs or how many times someone says sorry, Violence is not okay.

Early Poetry….

So tonight I was going through some old poems I had written when I was younger… like 16-18 years. I started to actually write my poems and saving them when I had moved away from my home town (However, I do know there are stacks of books and papers from much earlier poems that I had written when I was kid, in my house I grew up in back on my First Nation).

This is one of the poems I had written almost right after my car accident. I was 15 years old. I can’t find the paper version of it, but when I first moved to London I spent a great deal of time converting the poems that I could find that I had written on paper and trying to find a computer so that I could save them. I always used the library’s computer or the few people I managed to meet–their computers. I did this because when I first moved to London, I wanted to save my writings. (I didn’t want people who I hung around with to read them or find them–I think I would have been embarrassed if anyone read them then… Maybe because I lacked confidence/self-esteem). I moved here knowing nobody, no friends, no family. I couldn’t call home until a month after I arrived–when I started to meet people. You’re probably asking yourself, why didn’t I used a pay phone? When I moved away from home, I felt lost. I felt ashamed. I felt embarrassed. I didn’t even know where I was going to live, which city even… I was literally lost, physically & spiritually….

I spent 9 months without a mailing address or a way for my family to call me to check up on me. I had to call them, make sure to let them know that I was still alive. So, school pretty much saved me. If it weren’t for school, I don’t know where I would be right now–I guess that’s why it really bothers me when people say “Aboriginals get everything for free…” or that “Aboriginals have it best…” or that “Aboriginals shouldn’t get money for education…” Like I said earlier, if it weren’t for school or education, I don’t know where I would be.

As I said before, this is one the earlier poems. I can’t remember why I wrote it, or what I was feeling. Some of my poems from my teen years is pretty dark… it freaks me out even that I could even think to write some of the things I had written. Fortunately for me, I now use writing as an outlet. I realize that I love to write, and that writing has given me the confidence to convey my thoughts (especially after my car accident and my acquired brain injury).

This poem… I left it untitled, and I am not sure why. I would have liked to call it “This poem is me…”, but this poem is not who I am anymore. Maybe it was me then, but it is not me anymore…


This poem is me,
As crazy as it may seem.
Come close,
Come see;
The little girl,
Running around,
So care free.
The little girl,
So neat and clean.
Come see;
As crazy as it may seem
The little girl,
Who cries herself to sleep.

A poem: Not your fault

Today this post is dedicated to the work I have been doing in counseling. For years, I have struggled with my past experiences and I am just finally talking about it with someone else. They said, “you know what happened to you, wasn’t your fault…it was the trauma you experienced.” I know that it’s not “traditional” to share with the rest of the world that you are receiving help, like counseling. But who says I am “traditional”?

I wrote this poem to help get my emotions and thoughts out of my head. In this journey called life, it wasn’t that I couldn’t get help or that I didn’t have the help…I just didn’t know how to ask for help. This poem isn’t a poem about me and expecting people to sympathize with me. In fact, that’s the last thing I want. I just want people to know that, it’s okay to ask for help and it’s okay to get help. Sometimes it is hard to ask for help. I believe that it is not a sign of weakness to ask for help. It is a sign of strength and courage to realize that you can’t do everything on your own, and to ask for help from others.


Not your fault

Everyone told me,
You have to be careful Naomi
Watch what you say,
Watch what you do,
What where you walk,
Is it my fault that I walked the wrong way?
Nobody told me,
But Naomi,
You have to watch your back
Is it my fault that I didn’t watch my back?
Nobody told me,
Naomi you can’t trust everyone you met
Some call it naivety
Some call it stupidity
I call it hope,
Is it my fault that I hope,
Hope that the next person won’t hurt me?
Nobody told me,
People you trust,
Can be people that hurt you,
Can be people that take,
The only things you own:
Your body, your heart, and your soul.
Everyone was telling everyone
Else, but me
What happened to Naomi
Wasn’t her fault.
Nobody told me,
Naomi, but you have to learn
Everything on your own.
Is it my fault that I learned everything
On my own?
Nobody told me,
That I could ask for help,
That I didn’t have to do this on my own.
Is it my fault that I did this on my own too?
Everyone told me,
Naomi I can help you
But nobody told me,
Naomi, it’s okay you can ask me for help.
Everyone told me the help was there.
Is that my fault too,
That I didn’t ask for help from you?
Everyone was telling everyone
Else but me,
Naomi, it’s not your fault.
Is it my fault, I didn’t listen to you?
Is it my fault, that I blamed myself too?

Have women benefited from globalization & an anonymous poem

For my political science class, I am currently working on my essay and I have to answer the question: Has globalization benefited women?

From my research I am finding that, no Aboriginal women have not benefited from globalization. Maybe there has been a few benefits but I am noticing that the effects of globalization have the same effects as colonization on Aboriginal people/women: oppression, marginalization, exploitation. The only difference between the two is that colonization is where the government restricted the Aboriginal People’s access to their natural resources to a confined area aka reserves and that globalization is where the government is trying to gain access to the Aboriginal people’s natural resources on their reserves.

After reading all my research, I came across this poem I wrote and it sort of sums up what is happening to Aboriginal women in Canada not just because of globalization, but also colonization.

When I was 18,
I moved away from home.
When I was 18,
I had my first relationship.
When I was 18,
I fell in love.
When I was 18,
The man I loved,
Pushed me, hit me, spat on me,
Had his way with me.
When I was 18,
I tried to fight off the man I love.
When I was 18,
I was arrested.
They call it assault.
I call it self-defense.
When I was 18,
I was called a bitch,
By my arresting officer.
When I was 18,
I tried to run.
From the police.
From those that loved me,
Even the man that hurt me.
The same one who had his way with me.
When I was 18,
I tried to kill myself.
When I was 18,
I even failed at suicide.
When I was 18,
I had sex for the first time..for money.
When I was 18,
I trusted all the wrong people.
When I was 18,
I was Aboriginal.
When I was 18,
I was female.
When I was 18,
I was still young.
When I was 18…

Poetry

I remember some people used to say, “I write to help me with my feelings.”

I never used to believe those people until I tried it myself.

I took up writing poetry when I was really young. I never really used to pay attention to when I would write or how I would write until about 8 years ago. I started to write about my feelings, certain things that I remember, or that happened to me. This writing really helped me to put things in perspective sometimes. Other times it just helped me to get things off my mind.

I believe that writing is a form of healing. It is good for the soul.