| The Silver Braid Survivors of Sexual Exploitation Network Metro Atlanta Area |
| Survivor's Poetry |
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| Songs and Whispers
Songs and whispers they dance around in my head. I am a child dreaming of a magical place to escape, from all the horrible things going on, hoping they will never happen to me again. Songs and whispers of a happy place to play, have fun and feel no shame or disgrace. A place where all abused children go, to escape the pain of the unwanted touching of those monsters hands. Holding on to that happy place where songs and whispers put a smile on each of those children's face. Written by: Marie Waldrep |
| One of Atlanta's nicknames, The Phoenix City |
| One thing that has helped so many of us survivor in our healing journey is creativity such as, writing poetry, stories, music, singing, etc.
Here you will find poetry written by members of our network. We are proudly connecting survivors of all forms of sexual assault/exploitation and domestic violence with services that help them heal...and building bridges of advocacy towards healthier lives. |
| The Silver Braid poem
The Silver Braid Coming together strand by strand Survivors everywhere taking hold, of each others hand Walking this healing path together Encouraging each other, Watching as our strength grows and grows A sisterhood of women, survivors Once feeling out of place, Lonely and cold, finding the strength now To be brave and tell our truths We now know we had no power Over the things that happened to us on those days To our higher power we give our praise Uniting, taking each others hand, building Integrity, the Silver Braid Strengthening each unit strand by strand Written by: Author Marie Waldrep |
| "FIFTEEN" (a poem by Wendy)
I was 15 when he told me he loved me. I was naive when he told me he would always take care of me. When he told me to trust him, I was more than willing. When he told me to go out and be raped by men for money. I did I did whatever he told me to. He had the power to hurt me and he did very often. I felt like dirt. I wanted to die. He used threats against my family to keep me in line. And life continued on And on I wasn't alone Many other girls followed in my footsteps With promises of love and protection they came With fear and trembling we stayed. No longer was I 15, I had grown up. I was now an adult. A prostitute. A prostitute in our country is a woman you carries diseases and seduces our good fine men. A prostitute is an eyesore in our cities. A problem that should go away. It's acceptable for a prostitute to be murdered And when she isn't She is put in jail to rot in her own misery. I was 29 when the police came to rescue me, or so I thought. Instead of rescuing me, they put me in prison along with him. The police even said they had never seen women and girls as brainwashed as we were. But that didn't matter. I was a prostitute. A prostitute that needed to be put in jail. A prostitute that now has to register as a sex offender for the rest of her life. If I had come from another country, I would be considered a victim of human trafficking. I would receive help. I would receive compassion. But I was born in the United States. So I am a dirty prostitute. Although I am out of that life, I am tormented with nightmares. I know what society thinks of me and I hate myself as much as they do. I wish I had come from a different country. |
| What's a Nice Girl Like you Doing on the Stroll?
by Anne Bissell Yes I've seen her, walking down the avenue; bleached blonde, or corn rows of bright pink. She could use a touch up. Trying to look happy, so nonchalant, unconcerned even as she waves at your car. Perfect stranger, might be the last she meets. Makes you wonder, what's a nice girl like her doing on the stroll...The 'ho' stro' she calls it; your daughter, your sister, your neighbor. I was that girl not so long ago. Glamorous call girl by day, crack ho' by night; no separations, no divisions. Instead, let me ask the real question; the one we should be asking before we call her bitch, whore, slut. She asked for it after all, she's that kind of girl. The question is: Where is the John? Where is the Customer? The pimp who turned her out....Why is it always "That whore." It's her fault, she put herself there, she asked for it. Because no one thought to ask the real question, no one wants to go into the heart of darkness - the question behind the crime that is no crime sexual abuse; the original sin. No one wants to ask why her stepfather's favorite website, Triple XXX barely legal. Cum on in....Child porn is art, he claims. Step-daddy was the original John. The first one who turned her out; A price to pay.She asked for it; she was a bad girl. He'll kill her if she tells. What she really wants is for her real daddy to call her and tell her he loves her and misses her and What ever she has done, he understands. But somehow he blames his daughter for what happened. It was her fault she was raped; victimized by incest, folded, stapled & mutilated; pinned up on a wall; Hunted, prey, a consumable, and sometimes, disposable object. Yes, I've seen her, walking down the street; One more step, turn around, who do you see? One more step; Yes, I've seen her, but she is no longer me. At times I wonder if I can truly leave her behind. You'll never be able to discard me completely, she tells me. Good girls deserve to live; Bad girls must die. Once you get turned out, even if it's by your own daddy, you can never go home again. So the question is, the question should always have been, "What's a nice, middle-class, white-bread, boy-man, trick, john, customer, perpetrator, pedophile and consumer of humanity, doing in a place like this?" And so, all around the United States, she's thinking about, one step away; thinking about placing an ad; Looking for a sugar-daddy; soon to be divorced; never to be human. Homeless in her own body; homegrown American bad-girl whore. |
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| ~Him~ A knock on the door You know who it is All over again You do hate this He locks the door And comes over to you You start to cry You know what he´ll do He tells you to shut up He grabs your neck He spits on your face What the heck??? He touches your breasts You close your eyes He does what he wants He won´t hear your cries You tell him to stop He slaps your face He says you deserve it He´ll put you in your place You say it hurts He laughs at you He says :"Shut up bitch!" And you actually do He´s so scary He´s so big You hate him so much He´s such a pig He finally leaves He closes the door A smile on his face You can´t take it anymore But you just lie there And start to cry Just hoping one day This bastard will die. Bárbara Amaral de Andrade Furtado |
| Sisters We must Not Forget
poetry by Anne Bissell Author/Memoirs of a Sex Industry Survivor Executive Director www.thesilverbraid.org OPERATION SILVER BRAID Sisters, we must not forget Must not forget those who paved the way Those who showed us we could Rise above Be something better We are almost forgetting We begin to believe the Images on the screen Porn Stars as goddess Big as life On times square We can all tell you who she is But who was Betty Friedan? Who started the women’s movement? The twenty something girl isn’t sure who Gloria Steinem is But she knows who the porn star is She believes what the pornographers have said Liberation is getting gang banged on camera It’s a feminist statement, She says Freedom of choice! Rap stars raping pre-teens and winning awards Pimps snatching up our daughters No we must remember Our sisters who told us We didn’t have to be just A body part… We need to remember the fight Now we are Strong joining together again Grabbing a hold of The Silver Braid. |
| ~Little Angel~
Little angel lay down your sweet head Your voice will not go unspoken It will be heard Little angel so precious so small How could he hurt you the way he did? You precious child, Your voice so soft and mild Trusting, your heart full of love This evil pedophile your life he stole You were so brave to the very end Now in heaven no worries ever again Little angel I love to hear you sing Little angel now resting in peace With Jesus your soul he will keep Dedicated to Jessica Marie Lunsford and all children who lost their lives due to rape, torcher, domestic violence and sexual exploitation. ~Marie Waldrep~ |
| ~One More Nail~
One more nail added to my coffin Did you hear my cry? One more harsh word spoken Leaving my heart to feel broken Is that domestic violence? No, did I lie I tried to reach out the only way I knew how Please, not now I am to busy to listen to your pain I wished you really would Another nail hammering down But it is silent, you don't hear it It don't make a sound Live oh how I wished I could Weight it holds me down I try, I want to walk away free My heart pounding It takes all the strength within me One foot in front of the other It is very hard to breathe I know I have injuries from long ago Making it harder for me to walk Without so much pain Totally isolated Do you see? Another nail shutting me down Seeking help What good did it do for me? Soft dirt you now see This is where I am Buried here beneath this big oak tree Silenced forever No one heard me ~Marie Waldrep~ |