Assaulted officer writes poem to help process trauma

18 June 2026

One of four officers assaulted in a brutal and sustained attack while trying to detain a violent man has written a poem as a way of processing the mental toll the incident has had on her.

Their sergeant has praised the officers saying their performance was exemplary but said the attack had taken a toll on them physically, emotionally and psychologically.

“One of the officers has been having nightmares since and, when they couldn’t get back to sleep, they started writing to help them cope,” the Birmingham based sergeant explained.

“By the morning they had produced a poem I thought was disturbingly powerful and would resonate with a lot of people. I asked them if I could share it and they were happy for me to do so but wanted to remain anonymous.”

Jess Davies, chair of West Midlands Police Federation, also said the poem would resonate with many officers who have been assaulted on duty.

“Many officers are left traumatised when they are assaulted,” she explained, “Quite often, the mental impact of these assaults lasts longer than the physical injuries and it can take time for officers to come to terms with what has happened to them.

“In this instance, I am pleased the officer involved was able to express her feelings in this way and I am sure many colleagues will relate to what she has written.

“I hope these four officers recover from the physical and mental impact of this horrendous incident.

“All too often police officers come under attack simply for doing their job. They are not society’s punchbags and those who attack police officers, and other emergency service workers, should feel the full weight of the law, so that they are adequately punished but also to act as a deterrent to others.”

 

The Door

It stands proudly before us,

As it guards the bad man’s arena.

Barricaded. Wedged.

The purpose will soon become clear.

 

It’s tense.

We now have entry.

Broken glass and cutlery.

Blood-stained scissors on the carpet.

One objective.

Four targets.

 

In the corner of the room,

Evil eyes stare.

Pupils dilated.

Aware.

Welcome to the arena.

Hear screams of pain and fear.

As the bad man draws near.

He lashes out towards us,

He’s not interested in orders.

He says, this is my playground.

Only there is nothing fun in here.

I will drag you down for entering.

The purpose is now clear.

 

The door.

Barely on its hinges,

Sees what unfolds and cringes.

A metaphor before us

Barely standing to reassure us,

That the entrance is now the exit,

Out of hell, out of this bedsit.

 

Hair astray,

Breath restricted,

Wondering why did we deserve this.

Wondering why it got so twisted.

Now, distraught and feeling empty.

Where not enough still seems like plenty.

When one minute feels like twenty.

Where we get away intently.

 

The door.