Satanic Ritual Abuse Exists, Together We Can Stop It. 'Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.' Margaret Mead
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Reality Insane
That Once My Favorite Place
The Myth of a Fiery Hell
To Safer Realms
The Ones Who Hear
Recurring Unrest
In The Kitchen (Membership required)
Survivor Art Foundation



child hand (c) 2008 shirley harshenin




*Warning - Content could be disturbing and/or triggering. Please take care while reading.

Reality Insane

Darkness surrounds,
Laden with pain,
Insanity so near;
Taste it,
Spit it out,
Taste it again.
My reality my own,
So many doubt.
I don’t blame them,
Yet I do.
Sick and twisted,
Unimaginable evil,
Who’d want to believe?
I don’t want to,
But it’s mine;
I cannot be rid of it.
My reality:
Robes and fire,
Painted faces,
Pain, torture, sacrifice,
No evidence,
Only scars unseen.
Not enough.
Will they ever believe?
They may listen,
Nod, possibly sympathize
Until you tell them who.
I don’t want to be here
Knowing what I know.
I don’t want the memories,
Please, make them not real.
But they are real.
Prayers and pleading
Cannot change the truth.
It happened,
It continues,
And ignorance feeds it.
I fed it too
With suppression,
But not today.
I wish.

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That Once My Favorite Place

In my rocker-recliner, my favorite place,
comforting, the wood stove’s crackle,
generating the mood for my favorite thing -
losing myself in a book.

My darlings are safe, “dress-up” their game.
Through the hall their giggles dance,
mingling with the happy snap
of roaring, aromatic cedar.
Aaahh.. life is good.

Nothing could’ve prepared me
for the impact of the blow,
destroyed my sense of safety,
raped me of all serenity.


Donned in homemade masks,
my sweet angels, leapt as only children do,
nearer, nearer to my place,
that once my favorite place.
I felt a tremor stir within,
rapidly grew to quake.
Leaping, hopping, they continued play,
While my heartbeat turned to thunder.
From the corner of my eye,
over the edge of my page,
I saw it.

There welled a scream, primal and raw,
terror indescribable, it muted me,
Incoherent utterances,
deep, innate, core.
In fetal huddle, my tome, my shield,
omnipotent peril, untouchable horror,
murdered, my favorite place.

Uninvited, unwelcome, those eyes of ice.
Can not be.
I begged them go away.

But they followed me, haunted me,
refused to be a lie.


My darlings can’t forget,
(the terror in Mommy’s eyes won’t let).
Mommy changed that day.
For years she wore that look,
couldn’t walk to her car at night,
couldn’t stay home alone,
nor use the telephone.
They knew it was bad, what their Mommy saw.
They’d take it all back if they could.
But they can’t.
They couldn’t understand,
because they couldn’t see,
What only Mommy saw that day.

Shirley Harshenin
© 2001, January 30
All Rights Reserved

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The Myth of a Fiery Hell

Corpse-like cold, bottomless black,
That’s the Hell I know.
I’ve been there many times.

To close my eyes and visualize
Being there is terrifying, because it’s real.

Never uttered a word to wake me,
Her breath snatched me from my dreams.
My heart pelted new wounds on bruises,
Staring into dead eyes, I don’t want to recognize,
Blindly falling, futilely fleeing her malignant pursuit.
From my valiant-pathetic grip she rips thin sheets,
Leaving me bare, hypnotized, tranquilized,
“Get up chiiiild,” she hisses.
Spikes of ice sting my cheeks, prick deeper, deeper –
Freeze my soul their goal.

I rise.

Led again to fiery forest rite –
Forked flames sizzle and spit,
Suck life’s light from fresh flesh,
Smell it being swallowed.

The fire eats the hairs on my arms,
But dead-blue’s what I feel
Every time.

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caged in the confines of mind
thought now a life of its own
built on a day dream whim
mindlessness fueled the drone
of endless unnecessary thought
expanding illusions and what ifs
grandeuring the grass greener
mocking the unthinking stiffs
thinking in circles and squares
thoughts rebound and grow
go round and return bigger
upsiding my head, what a blow
images that never shut up
trapped in the confines of mind
thoughts materializing before me
building worlds of deaf and blind
caged in the confines of mind
iron grated, mind-made cage
hardly notice the thickening bars
thoughts turn another mind page

Shirley Harshenin
© October 7, 2003
All Rights Reserved

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To Safer Realms

Borne into nefarious web,
Where torrential rites seldom ebb,
Where all that's good from soul is bled,
To safer realms my spirit fled.

Relentless indoctrination,
Lies in constant incubation,
Lurk and work 'til Light is dead,
To safer realms my spirit fled.

Sadomasochistic practice,
Daily resolve plunge their abyss,
"Submit, Submit" fills weary head,
To safer realms my spirit fled.

The ether's my blanket, my balm,
The Light that cocoons me in calm,
From eyes that slice ice, drones of dread,
To safer realms my spirit fled.

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The Ones Who Hear

The child weeps and no mortal hears.
Resounding pain, the Heavenly listen,
the Celestial family hears.
"Be strong," they whisper to the beaten one.
"Rise above it," they urge.
And the child hears.

Embraced in adult casement;
comforting and constricting.
Emerge young one, your agony shared,
A chorus muted by an invisible plane,
barricaded by mortality.
Yet, the child hears the melody of Home,
pealing omnisciently, silently breaking
the barrier of time.
The child hears, and is strengthened.
Softly spoken, yet the Heavenly hear
the child's serene gratitude.
And all is well...for the moment.

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Herewithin me, a scream ~

Exigent its life pulse,

Epicenter tremor from years
of gnawing,

Within me, primal ~ core ~
nuee ardent.

Demanding full release ~
erupt without,
or die within ~
the strangulating
Must be freed
to furor the fire,
weep with sea water,
wail with the wind ~
allow Earth absorb,
that which Malignancy desires,
and continuing mental health

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Recurring Unrest

A gnarled ball of blanket and me,
Another night of unrest.
Her silhouette, from my bedroom door,
beckons, "Come."
Though she's only a faceless shadow,
I rise. Follow.

She's gone.
I stand alone - that corridor and me.
Recognition's bile gurlges, spits,

Trapped, shackled, torn -
they're tearing me in two,
Arms stretched, wrists screaming -
Their torturous fight, unrelenting.

My head snaps left to right,
Why can't I see the opponents?

Screams rip like honed fingernails
on newborn-baby's skin.

I wake up disoriented, drenched
in an ugly swill of sweat,
and yesterday's tears.

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In the Kitchen

Push blender button pulse,
emulsify chickpeas, garlic, cilantro
to hummus purée
and I wince, for the thousandth time,
as I feel glass depressed into face,
suctioned too close
to precision blades eager
to pâté tongue to silence.

Slicing seasoned-ready tenderloin
on hacked-up butcher block,
honed blade sinks effortlessly
through raw pink pork,
and I see Cat.
Limp, dead. Silent, dead.
Mother smiling.

Hand-cranked meat grinder,
dented and scratched, gouged in places,
the aluminum body well-worn,
well-used. Clamped to farm house counter top
I watched the process many times.
Steaming healthy oatmeal
slopped into breakfast bowls,
the smell inviting; more by the minute
as strawberry jam forms rivulets over
lumpy mounds …
of exposed brain. I catch the vomit
and hold it.
Mother is watching.

There is not a kitchen chore or action
unassociated with trauma past
and so I go about what a mother does
and know these visuals are mine –
ingrained, real, permanent,
And past.

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Ritual abuse is an extreme sadistic form of abuse of children and non-consenting adults. It is methodical, systematic sexual, physical, emotional and spiritual abuse, which often includes mind control, torture, and highly illegal and immoral activities such as murder, child pornography and prostitution. The abuse is justified by a religious or political ideology.
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