Brain oscillation,
No concentration,
Thought invasion,
Constant rumination,
Memory violation,
Past commiseration,
Unwanted stimulation,
Apologetic compensation,
Fleeting determination,
Hypocritical deliberation,
Personality creation,
False presentation,
Total ostentation,
Needing defibrillation.
This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.
Writing Therapy.
Just words on a page,
Or something more?
The page listens,
The page absorbs,
The page doesn’t judge.
The page can be discarded,
The page can be shared,
The page can be reread.
The act of writing heals.
It pulls the demons out.
It exposes them to the light.
It reveals them for what they are.
Fabrication.
Rumination.
Improbability.
Regret.
The act of writing instructs.
It informs our current state.
Shows our inner workings.
Forces us to be precise.
After writing comes the review.
By looking back we see the truth.
Of how far we’ve come.
Of our varied and ever changing moods.
Of different aspects of ourselves.
We see that we are more complex than our current mental state can possibly comprehend.
So write.
Write without judgement. Without pause for grammar or spelling. Without thoughts of what is appropriate or right. Without care for its readability. Without concern for the judgement of others.
It is the act of writing that counts, not the quality that you produce.
No one has to see it.
So just write.
This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, or Audiobook.
There’s nowhere you can run to,
Nowhere you can hide,
Not when your problems
Are coming from inside.
You cannot escape them,
You cannot leave,
Now that blood is
Running down your sleeve.
Don’t try to face me,
Don’t try to hide,
Mummy, Daddy,
Why weren’t you by my side?
Do I want to sober up,
Or do I want to die?
Blank memories. Pain.
Watching his hand touch up my thigh.
I couldn’t say no,
I couldn’t flee,
Nothing I tried
Broke his hold of me.
Years have passed,
But his grip remains,
He took my body,
My soul, my brains.
So now I’m sitting here,
Stoned and alone,
Trying to remember
If I have ever felt at home.
This poem is from the book, ‘Words On A Page’
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, or Audiobook.
