seer

Absence of Belief

You sleep inside the turmoil. You worry that you are not enough. You fear a planetary end. Beloveds, will you pause for a moment and become still? Inside you will be able to do pertinent compartmentalizations needed to sort through the detritus that feels like confusion inside of your minds.

How to separate truth from fiction? There is only one way. First, you must become completely pure into yourself. How, you ask?

Herein is the essence of you embracing your choices and power. You are, in spite of what is told to you, in control of your present reality. You choose what you listen to, watch and absorb from your surroundings. You choose interaction and focus. You choose perception and sight.

Clearing your environment is imperative and takes an active journey of work. Only you can choose to go into your silence. So many are afraid of this space, as you must be alone with your own mind. Yet, if you do not go alone with your mind how then will you complete your process of clearing?

You are a unique form of energy, cells and matter. There is no other like you. This is how intricately incredible is your form. When you can humbly see yourself with no comparison to another, you are finally clearly seeing.

Rise above the matter weighting down your human feet. Look with eyes clear of all thinking which is not of a program implanted into you by outside source. You know. Inside your DNA is the root of your truth.

Absence of belief. Simplicity. The flow of synergy. This is your being. When you hear yourself speaking words which drip with kindness that is rooted in authenticity, you have made a completed shift into the next step of your existence.

Rise, Beloveds. Fly.

🦋K7🦋

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Being a Medium For Other People’s Trauma

I can feel her very strongly as soon as I walk through the door. We are the only two people here in the lobby. I am waiting to see my therapist. This woman at the table is filling out paperwork, it appears, for her first time here.

She has shoulder length, dark brown hair, and is nicely dressed in a skirt, boots and a matching jacket. I sense that she feels her appearance will make her seem less “crazy”; if she dresses nicely. She doesn’t know that she isn’t crazy. She is a victim and her sadness runs deep.

I am feeling her energy so strongly that it is affecting my physical body. I know this heavy chest I’m suddenly feeling is not mine nor is the tight throat. This did not start until I walked into the waiting room and saw her.

I am writing this now on my phone notepad as I watch her, mainly as a deterrent, so I don’t empathically become impulsive and blurt out talking to her.

When she’s filling out the forms she is agitated. I watch her shift and rub her forehead then finally throw her pen roughly into her purse. In that time period she is also angry.

I can see in my mind someone who feels like her father. He is dark haired. It is short, almost black, hair. He has a narrow, fairly pointed nose and sinister, cold dark eyes. He feels tall and skinny. Now I am sad and tearful inside my body, and my skin has chills with my arm hairs standing up. His energy is thick and mean.

She is reading through all the paperwork of disclaimers, and I am reading her.

My mouth is watering through some nausea. I count my breaths to calm down, reminding myself to stay steady.

My therapist comes through the front door and briefly cuts the connection as she walks between us.

I’ll be right with you.” She says to me as she heads to the back, leaving me alone with the girl again.

Now I see his hand. He is holding a belt that is folded in half, and his hand is more into the middle of it and not towards the belt buckle. He was a disciplinarian who favored exact blows of holding the belt in a more controlled way, as opposed to swinging it and letting it land anywhere on her body.

I want to ask her. I want to verify what I’m seeing. I am deeply fighting this urge. I don’t see small child sexual abuse. I see consistent physical abuse. I do see sexual satiation in her older life, a leaning toward zoning out through sexual escapades of feeling good in the moment.

As she reads her papers, I am feeling her mind, which is currently split between the memories she is about to have to talk about and what she is trying to focus in on reading and absorbing.

I can’t ever say what I see directly to the person I see it about. It’s invasive and could be triggering to them. It’s such a hard position for me to be in when I feel so many multiple things. I want to comfort them. I also so, so badly always want to know if what I’m seeing is correct.

Yet, I cannot say to strangers, “I see your father holding a belt.”

This could cause more trauma for them, and I’m just not comfortable doing that, so I release it.

These moments are sometimes difficult for me as an Empath. I feel compelled to connect to a person in these moments. It’s part of why too much public activity is not an active choice for me.

I can spend a lot of time seeing into someone’s life, something I consider a gift that I cannot necessarily use for anything openly. I can give quiet empathy or only talk about it, if the other person initiates it.

As I watch her, I see she is struggling with something inside of her, something she isn’t sure she wants to talk about. Something with her father. She is having conflicted feelings of having to talk about her father. I am trying to figure out what that is, I get a slight sense she feels sorry for him at times for some reason, maybe his own childhood or times when he was good to her.

She does not look up or over at me once. She is emotionally frozen in time, memories and pain in her own space.

I wish I could tell her that I know this feeling; this throat lump I am physically feeling from her right now. She is just beginning this healing journey. I want to reach out badly, if just to say, I see and understand.

I wonder sometimes if I relayed to someone what I saw, if it would give them validation or comfort. Especially people like her, who come into my field waves very, very strongly.

Yet, I always stay silent. Right now I am pushing away the urge to speak with her by sitting here writing this out on my phone instead.

Post therapy continuance:

My therapist opened the door at this time to call me back to her office. I didnt see the other woman again.

When empathic energy displays images of other people’s lives, it takes constraint to resist the urge to give them a hug.

At times I feel like a medium for other people’s trauma.

The Gathering

(written in 2009)

We are the quiet, the hidden
The purposely unnoticed,
The only speak of it to each other
Write it, paint it, sing it…
But not to the masses.

They are unfocused, organized
Religious zealots, diabolical replicas,
Rendered children of Zion,
Angered by the unknown, the
Misunderstood reasons for not
Being willing to understand
Or accept what is inevitable

So they

Wish to kill us, do you?
Wish to rip our hearts from our
Chest, hold them in your hands
As if you have triumphed over our
Spirits, brought yourself redemption
By judging (not) lest ye be judged,
Oh yes, I can quote your scripture,
Talk about your rapture, how you
Crucified your so called Christ;
Made your God weep; all so you
Could keep some kind of purity.

We will gather, make no mistake,
You with your held out crosses,
Your thumping black books spewing
Scriptures that choke out truth,
But we are patient, compassionate
To our fellow man, mistaken for weak
Until our rage breaks and seeps.

We are the Mystics, the witch’s brew,
The keeper of your thoughts, holders of
The knowing. We are the Old World tenderly
Tossed with the New, a salad of
Scrolls garnished with wisdom
And dressed with apparitions
That you call ghosts. We are here
To awaken your spirit should you
Choose to allow your ears to hear it.

There is a fire sparking, somewhere in
The mountains. I see them dancing,
Eyes wild with energy, hands raised,
Feet in rhythm with their own time,
And I smile at the divinity
As they find absolution
In the composition of the wind.

V/K
©venniekocsis.com

Holding Wishes

What is it like
To be granted a wish
When your first kiss
Was laced with bitterness,
Taken from a tender lamb,
A brutal sheering;
As if wool doesn’t scratch
And skin doesn’t bleed?

What is it like
To live a lie,
A life robotic, stoic,
Steps broken,
Words unspoken,
Fake smiles to the others
While never touching another
In a hug or
Underneath the covers?

What is it like to keep secrets
Buried so deep within you
That wine cannot give them words
Blood cannot release their ache,
So you ignore the pain,
Behavioral matter churning
While energies are burning
Into ashes
As your life passes?

I can only tell you
What it’s like to see
Things I wish I didn’t
Inside lives
Inside psyches
Where illusions become truth
And in the end
All that’s ever left
Is you
Alone in the dark matter
Watching the roaches scatter.

So instead I will
Tell you about a soul
Dancing in the twilight
To avoid seeing your midnight
Because it makes her eyes cry.

I’ll sing you a song,
Orchestrated by sadness,
Conducted by madness,
Numbed by satiation,
And I’ll call it
“Dysfunction Station”.

I’ll tell you what it’s like
To be without shame,
To own the bitter reality
Without the crutches of blame,
To say this is me
So accept and believe
Or leave and excuse
For there’s no win or lose
When you’re the one
Who gets to choose.

But here when I stand in the sunrise
And I find myself gazing there
Until its brilliant red sets
I know
I see
I feel
The real
Meaning of happiness,

And it’s not coated in sweetness.
No.
It’s filled with acceptance
And letting go.
It sees self in the mirror
And smiles back
In the midst of sadness
And repeated set backs.

There’s a bliss
Inside of the awareness
When one realizes the opposite
Of feeling nothing
Is feeling it all,
And so,
I fall
Fall
Fall
Into the dismal call
Where hearts weep.

It is a solitary sea,
This vision where I am
Left holding these fading wishes
Never granted.

v.k poetry
©venniekocsis.com

The Mermaid

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The Mermaid

They said they
Found her drowned
Below the galley
She had
Tried to
Scratch her way
Back to sea

And when they say
“Drowning”
They mean
“Breathing”

They say she
Was homesick
For the quiet
The way the water
Moved things slow
The way the starfish
Danced in the jellyfish glow

She couldn’t float
In this human world
Of capture and
Lack of concern
She could neither bear
The way they hurt
Nor wear the scars
Of so many broken hearts
The deceptions
The misconceptions
The ego and mayhem

Chained, she became
Irrelevant pieces
For the thirsty
Drank from
A well sucked dry
Until her eyes cried
Like a taste of her
Momentary decadence
Could make their pain die

What a farce they created
As her spirit was deflated
Her existence debated
In hookah lounges
By serious hounds

Without a care
They used
Abused
Created confusion
With their illusions
She floundered
Broken gills
She was left alone
To weep and feel

They say she looked
Peacefully asleep
The air moving curls
Once, she’d begged
Never to be
lain to rest in coffins
Or beneath earth
She couldn’t bear
To become dirt

They say they found her
Fingers bent and broken
From holding to the hoping
So long there was
A permanent curve
A bend of the wrist
Left from too much wishing

Still now in the silent dark
She bumps the bows
Reminders that you will
Fail at rowing her sea
And she sings songs
“Of the one who
Never owned me.”
Lilting tunes of bravery
For the Matadors
Who valiantly tried.

They say there rose a tide
The day she died
So powerful
New planets were birthed
As she returned to moon
Escaping earth

And now she watches
From a star beneath the sea
Where coral reefs
Glow geometric algae
She writes stories

Deep diving
She died a thousand
Human deaths
Returning into
Liquid lungs
She explores the depths

v.k poetry
©venniekocsis.com

The Masks We Wear

Are we not beautiful?
Even beneath our masks,
Gifting our hearts and hiding the fear?
Are we not vulnerable and capable?

Giving

 Do you see they bring smiles
to hide the pain?

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and yet we cry
like rivers
swirling us
to the deep blue sea
as we weep
weep
weep

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Never cry more tears than you could hold in your hands. When all the world’s airbrushed it’s a sacred bond of trust.

Sometime I see right through the scenery. The first place that’s on my mind, the last place I find each time. Sometimes I swim beyond scenery. Sea moves as mercury to break its perfect skin, to dare to die from within.

Sometimes I see much more than’s good for me. The first thing that’s on my mind the last place I look each time. Sometimes I slip inside imagery, and the last thing that’s on my mind’s the first thing I’ll do each time.

Stars racing to burn out. A storm beginning to break, trees standing black against the sky. This was inevitable.

Sometimes we can see beyond our history the last place you hope to find, the one that’s been there all the time.”

Beth Orton

Rapt

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and that was
the day she stopped speaking
abruptly
out of the blue
without warning

and the silence
hit the rooms like tunnels
occasional echoes of laughter
held only in memories

no songs
nothing

just silence

just a long, accepting
breath that understood
how very few were
really listening
not with ears
but with heart

and so she bathed
in the rapt absence
of her own voice
ringing melodic
angel choirs
in the corridors of
her mind

and she became
one with herself
because in the silence
so much is heard

Vennie Kocsis