topic Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers in PTSD and trauma

Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Aurora2015 — Fri, 23 Jul 2021 13:39:59 GMT

Hi,

First time poster here. It's the eve of my birthday, I'm in lockdown, live alone and have had a week of being triggered for a multitude of reasons. Having been in therapy on and off for years, I am picking up more and more tools to help deal with the dark moments and more often than not (these days) cope well and manage triggers as opposed to acting out on them. I don't consider my writing good, have no idea where the words came from, but it feels better verbally dribbling them on a page. Can anyone relate?

HIDE

The pain is there, beneath the surface;
You blink and a crack shows;
Quick! Hide it, make a joke, Don't falter!

"You look sad" they'll say;
Laugh it off, deflect, dismiss;
Just don't let it show!

You'll go home, alone. You'll cry, you'll break;
The wound will bleed, the pain is there;
You'll sob until you're numb;
Then you'll sleep.

Morning comes.
You look in the mirror, the pain is there;
It's in your eyes, on your face and in your general demeanor;

Hide it!
Make-up, humor, anything. Don't let them see!
They won't understand. No-one does.
They never have. They never will.

You'll smile and crack a joke as you arrive at work;
"You look happy" they'll say;
You'll wink, crack another joke and get to work.

You'll go home, alone. You'll cry, you'll break;
The wound will bleed, the pain is there;
You'll sob until you're numb;
Then you'll sleep.

Finite.

Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Guest_1643 — Fri, 23 Jul 2021 15:32:47 GMT

gorgeous poem!

wow!

i relate to literally every sentence in ur post - live alone, and have struggled on and off for years with Mh

therapy has helped, then hasn't, depending on the professionalism of the therapist. I now choose carefully, and am very aware of red flags if they aren't suitable for helping with PTSD. It's crucial for PTSd to have someone who gets it and embodies trauma-sensitive care, from how they sit in the room, to how they react when u ask questions or challenge them.
Ur poem is beautiful. How are u today? I'm in victoria and this is the prickly end of lockdown. Getting there, cases going down,, but man... so flat out and aggrivated it's taken so long. Trying and feeling tried.
Hope you're doing okay!

Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Aurora2015 — Sat, 24 Jul 2021 13:59:37 GMT

Hi there,

Thanks for your kind words, they are greatly appreciated! I'm doing okay today. Hope you're coping okay with the lockdown today too.

Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

pl515p1 — Sat, 24 Jul 2021 16:24:33 GMT

Hello Aurora,

I can relate in some ways, after losing my mum and dad far too soon during the past several months, my mind has seesawed as much as my emotions.

I have written so much since I lost my entire world, some of it is distressing, some angry, some sad, some beautiful.

Your words say so much, the need to feel sadness, yet also the need to feel or appear normal the next day, I can relate, myself as a man, I try to not break down in front of others, I put on the facade of a brave face etc, sometimes writing out my thoughts allows me to say what I cannot face to face.

I have shared some poems here, but there have been two times where what I have written has been shared aloud with others, both times are special to me for different reasons.

The first was at the funeral of my father in November, I tried to read a Eulogy and...
Uh, anyway, the Funeral clergy actually chose to read one of the poems I had written in a book I wrote for dad, and hearing my words from the voice of another, and feeling the power as he spoke, is something I will never forget.

I did not want to write anymore after that, but recently I was asked if I wished to submit something of mine for a grief support exhibit, so after discussing it with my psychologist I agreed.

She told me that my words resonated with others who are also going through grief, and that brought joy to me, and gave me a bit more inspiration to continue to write, as I have begun to understand how much words can mean.

Emotions, thoughts, regrets, pain, they swirl around the mind, jockeying for positions of power. Sometimes letting them escape onto the page gives my mind a rest, other times it brings those thoughts into reality.

I think expressing what is within oneself is import, whatever form that takes, if writing helps you too, I hope you continue, and understand that what you say holds your truth, you experience, and your power, perhaps not only the power to help you, but to help others as well.

For me, seeing words in a tangible form brings reality and presence to my thoughts, I too do not know where they come from, but I figure that there must be a reason I think them, and to let them vanish from memory would be a waste, as a thought may only last for the briefest of moments, but if it is written, then it can live forever.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 11:25:16 GMT

A poem i wrote trying to process my trauma memories into a coherent comprehension after severe childhood trau,a memories had been plaguing me relentlessly.

The Chair Between Death And Life

I fell asleep on my lazy chair,
too tired to keep watch any longer.
Violence had hunted me for hours
The day had hollowed out my bones,
and silence pressed against my door.

Then terror tore me from my drifting,
some gruesome thing stood watching.
My pounding heart became a hammer
as I shot upright in my chair,
inside a mind deprived
of grace or mercy.

For one long moment nothing settled.

I watched the horror unfolding
right in front of me.
Not earth, nor heaven,
fear nor breath.
Only shock stood in the doorway,
whispering stories dressed
as violently gruesome eradication.
Death, death, death,
is there any compassion?

Yet fully alert now
The chair was still at rest.
The room’s protective walls remained
My defences where they stood before.
The light still came through the window.

A brother of concern
still walked through the door,
a holy kiss in greeting.

And somewhere buried underneath,
beneath the grief, the rage, the ache,
a quieter voice refused conclusion,
though all within me wished to break.

I do not know what waits before me.
I do not know what still may heal.
I only know the pain is far too heavy,
and far too deep to quickly heal.

So let me not become the horror
I woke up to just before.
Let me remain among the living
until the love of God finds me.

Not every shadow speaks with wisdom.
Not every wound demands an end.
Sometimes the soul survives by waiting,
descending slowly through the night.
Let my darkness meet His Ligh

And if tomorrow still feels empty,
and if my strength remains threadbare,
then let it be enough, for now,
staying alive upon my chair.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 11:30:52 GMT

A poem about Trauma memories.

Trauma Memories — Horror Relived

My memories are not always clear pictures.
Neither can they be always exact events
For my child is deeply buried by time,
not only me terrorised by fears.

Sometimes they are only fragments,
traumatic moments flashing
like broken film clips played too fast.

Overwhelming sensations.
Bodily feelings speaking in extremes.
Sudden fears beyond understanding.
Loneliness and grief without words.

A tightening chest.
Voices frightening.
Shadows chasing.

Suddenly the forgotten child within
is no longer remembering bad times,
but painfully reliving them.

For my trauma did not always live in words.
More often it hid beneath emotional layers,
inside overwhelming moments
I lived long ago.

Trauma stored years of terror within me,
creating a highly reactive nervous system
because of terrible things that happened to me.

Breaths held far too long.
Muscles tensed into injury.
Constant danger ruling my mind.

Forced to relive horrors from the past,
with a mind thrown into turmoil,
a heart beating wildly,
through countless sleepless nights
and terrible stored sensations,
where dying again and again
felt as if fear would never end.

Most of my memories
returned in this manner.

Never neat stories,
but storms breaking open.

Bits and pieces.
Floating images.
Lost feelings.
Terrors without explanation.

Many times I doubted myself,
for trauma often buries truth
beneath utter confusion.

Yet slowly,
with gentleness instead of force,
with truth instead of accusation,
with safety instead of panic,
with mercy instead of judgment,
with love instead of hate,

the buried child began speaking.

For the trauma memories
had not come to destroy me,
but to reveal
what had long remained hidden.

And I finally began to see:

What I called weakness
was often survival.

What I despised as madness
was more often than not
terror that had never been given a voice.

What I experienced as shame
was often unbearable pain
carried alone far too long.

Healing did not come
through winning battles against myself.

Healing came
when truth no longer demanded
that I hate
the wounded child within me.

For trauma memories
are not merely about the past.

They are about learning,
at last,
that the frightened child
never deserved abandonment
in the first place.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 12:04:06 GMT

It can be hard to find true self back and comfortable existence begins to return at least in impart.

Truth Within — Quiet Victory

Dark Voices — troubled states.
fear awakening — old terror.
meaning rushing — mind inflamed.
lies gathering — shadows speak.
heart trembling — soul tired.

Accusing whispers — learned wounds.
shame returning — ancient pain.
confusion circling — thoughts spinning.
pressure mounting — self collapsing.
body aching — grief alive.

Trying to be good — striving efforts.
mourning goodness — exhausted will.
self rule shouting — love obscured.
slipping certainty — losing sight.
hidden child — buried self.

State speaking — lies sounding true.
terror surging — nervous system burning.
suffocating truth — suffering grows.
compulsive demands — destruction follows.
living untrue — being out of touch.

Untrue living — growing wrong.
Conscience troubled - guilt accusing.
Addictions forming - unstoppable wrong.
Habits forming - living untrue.
dying goodness — light of day gone.

Judgement burning — falsehood consumed.
ego falling — masking self image.
low self esteem — not good enough.
inner upheaval — ever restless.
fighting self — life sucks.

Waiting quietly — soul listening.
darkness fading — morning nearing.
small obedience — faithful steps.
ordinary moments — holy ground.
daily bread — enough given.

Awareness sees - mindful truths.
Self awareness - toppling lies.
destroyer destroyed - wipes out.
no over thinking - mental freedom.
Truthful Heart - honestly loving.

Wisdom of old - established truths.
execute justice - in fairness.
deriving trueness - finding truth.
exposing intent - baring aims.
correcting views - dress down lies.

Ruling inner core - truly in charge.
wakening awareness - sight restored.
peace growing — trust returning.
love enduring — fear loosening.
Restoring identity — Life celebrations.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 12:06:09 GMT

When awaking the night becomes long and lonely but a new day dawns anyhow.

When Fear Awakes Our Night.

When anxious thoughts refuse to cease
and night will not bestow you peace,
remember softly as you lie
the darkest hours still pass us by.

Though weary minds may toss and turn
and restless fears within us burn,
the morning waits beyond the strain
and gentle calm will come again.

So breathe awhile and do not fight
each shadow moving through the night.
For even hearts that ache this deep
are still deserving rest and sleep.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 12:08:02 GMT

When we loose sight of what is true not true.

About Rubbish

Rubbish — ever been bagged as rubbish?
Rubbish — and thrown out with it?
Rubbish — been the smell up everyone’s nose?
Rubbish — what everyone wanted rid of?
Rubbish — taken down to the tip?
Rubbish — without value to anyone?
Rubbish — believed about yourself?

About Gold

Gold — has it ever lost its lustre within you?
Gold — has it ever ceased to have value?
Gold — has it ever not remained itself?
Gold — has it ever been untrue because of you?
Gold — has it ever not endured the fire?
Gold — has it ever not survived what buried it?
Gold — can it ever stop being gold?

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 12:19:43 GMT

They Feasted On My Life

They fed upon the good in me,
while I forgot my name.
But light returned and broke the night;
I rose through living flame.

They knotted me from what was real,
and dragged me far below.
Through dungeons built of fear and pain,
where lost souls come and go.

I fought to clear their choking webs,
but every turn was blind.
The more I strained to free myself,
the more they ruled my mind.

They lived upon what should have grown,
and drained my rightful days.
They turned my strength against itself,
through hidden twisting ways.

But light returned and broke the night,
I saw beyond their game.
The traps they sprung to finish me
became their own false shame.

My wounds cried out, the battle rose,
they thought I would be slain.
Yet fierce love stirred and stood within,
and walked me through the flame.

It broke the tyrants great and small,
and loosed their iron claim.
It gave me back my stolen life,
and called me by my name.

Now I feast upon the good once lost,
and bless the growing day.
For truth returned to dwell in me,
and drove their night away.

Re: Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

Jeshu7773 — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 12:23:31 GMT

When the Dark Brought Me Horror Upstairs.

Still Climbing!
There was a staircase once
that felt far too long and high,
too steep into the dark
for my small feet to undertake.

Each quivering step,
showering overpowering dread—

no child should have to face alone
such intensity, inescapable fear,
terror too large to understand.

So as a child I climbed,
not because I was strong,
or because I felt brave,
but because I had no choice—

though my legs felt like jelly.

And for a long time,
deep within,
I believed:

there was something
very wrong
with me being me.

Many years have passed.

The stairs never vanished,
but their meaning changed.

They appear now
in the feelings I live,
as memories of my past,
waves recalling,
coming and going—
the tides of my moods.

But the child who climbs
is no longer alone
inside those moments.

The years now meet him—
bringing the love and care
that were missed.

There is space now.

I can breathe
without being afraid
of not being heard.

There is a pause now,
ground to stand on,
instead of it being wiped
from beneath my feet.

This is relief
breaking through.

For now I know—
a quiet knowing that is real:

nothing was wrong
with me as a frightened child.

To live the indescribable
is something
to be horrified by.

So when I am overwhelmed,
it is not a command,
not a truth,
not a sentence to follow.

It does not control me.

It is a wave of recall
that rises
and falls again
without taking me with it.

The stairs remain
part of my story.

But they no longer decide
how it ends.

Not because I was flawed—
but because now, with compassion,
I can stand beside that little boy

and call him my own.