Writing Therapy

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.

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This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence

Take The Damn Pill

Take the damn pill,
You’re on it for a reason.
It’s to stop you feeling ill,
To keep you from self-treason.

Sure you’re feeling fine,
But how long will it last?
You know you’re not divine,
Just look back at your past.

There was that time you went cold turkey,
When you knew it would be fine.
Instead your mind went murky,
And you turned to a life of crime.

Or when you got the jitters,
So bad you couldn’t sleep.
Feeling your skin crawling with critters,
Causing you to weep.

Or that time you almost died,
When depression come back strong.
Or the time that you lied,
To yourself that something wasn’t wrong.

Take the damn pill,
You’re on it for a reason.
I don’t want to be reading your will,
As the last act of the season.

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This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

I Over Thought It & Hurt My Own Feelings

I over thought it and hurt my own feelings.
Ruminated and created some tearlings.
Them’s are tears that represent fears.
Them’s are shame and toxic self-blame.

I internalised it and took it out on you.
Rebelling and yelling that somethings ado.
‘Twas an attack that needs an unpack.
‘Twas a interrogation like presentation.

I blocked the world off and hurt myself.
Bashed and slashed at my body wealth.
That’s a knife leading to strife.
That’s a pile of pills causing ills.

I broke down and lost it all.
Cried and tried to take the last fall.
I was insane and overflowing with pain.
I was at rock bottom feeling forgotten.

I survived and came back to you wearily.
Apologising and explaining myself tearily.
The same story just more gory.
The trauma trick that I always stick.

I recovered and returned to my normal.
Flirting and fucking and acting all formal.
You said it’s okay, it was just a bad day.
You let me back in, despite all my sin.

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This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

The Derelict

The first thing you notice are his bare feet,
Black and dirty.
Lacking a chair, he squats.
Lacking a home, he squats.
The second thing you notice are his eyes,
Sunken and hollow. Desperate.
You walk.
He sees you seeing him.
You walk faster.
He smiles wide.
His teeth are as broken as the dwelling he guards.
Shattered windows for a shattered soul.
He calls out.
You walk faster still.
His sunken eyes suddenly grow sharp.
He recognises an opportunity.
You wear things of value,
You are something of value.
Then a second voice joins the first,
And then a third.
They point. They chuckle. They stand.
Your wealth represents their high.
Your body represents their high.
You run.

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This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

The Gift and the Choice

When you can see your future,
How do you choose?

Every option has suffering.
Every path leads to death.

Exponentially branching,
Your vision fades,
The deeper you go.

You can’t hold it all.
You don’t have the processing power.

It hurts you, this gift.
You feel it all, all at once.

So you block it,
Mentally put a stop to it.
You turn away from it,
And curse it.

This leaves you dull,
Blind to the beauty of your choice,
The choice you made,
The choice to turn your gift off.

For there is still life,
There is still love,
Vivid, like a flower in the dirt.

If you only knew
how to look.

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This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence

Thoughts Intrude

Thoughts intrude,
Like a hammer’s blow,
Destroying the peace
I’ve cultivated.

Thoughts intrude,
Like a siren’s scream,
Stealing the attention
I’ve promised.

Thoughts intrude,
Like a threatening word,
Forcing the action
I’ve avoided.

Thoughts intrude,
Like a funeral march,
Revealing the emotions
I’ve suppressed.

Thoughts intrude,
Like a bird’s call,
Highlighting the beauty
I’ve missed.

Thoughts intrude,
Like a child’s smile,
Connecting the reality
I’ve lost.

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This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Choose Wisely

Why do you think
It will be ok?
Because thinking so
Takes your anxiety away.

How do you know
It won’t happen to you?
Because knowing so
Is all you can do.

What makes you certain
It won’t be a bad day?
Because you get down
On your knees and pray.

You don’t even believe
In the power of positive thought,
If it were someone else,
You’d say their methods wrought.

That they are just
As likely as another,
To undergo pain, loss,
And oh yes, to suffer.

Yet for you, you permit yourself
This one kind of fiction,
Because it allows you to function
With renewed conviction.

But what happens when
The charms and mind games fail?
What will happen when
Life causes you to wail?

Don’t you go thinking
That these words are lies,
That the message here
Is something to despise.

It is merely a warning
To get your house in order,
Because eventually life
Will throw it into disorder.

Look up the numbers
Apply them to your life,
Statically speaking,
You will go through similar strife.

But it doesn’t feel this way,
You are somehow special,
That’s just your ego talking,
With the words of the devil.

You will reap what you sow,
Getting what you deserve,
The actions you take now,
Dictate what life will serve.

Look at your past and trace life back,
What you did then put you on this track.

So choose wisely.

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This poem is from the book Words On A Page

You Say

You say you love me,
But you don’t know me,
Not the full me,
Not every part of me,
Not as I really am.

You say I should open up,
That I should share,
That I should let you in,
Into my inner world,
Into my mind, my emotions, my everything.

You say you will accept me,
But that’s a lie,
You don’t know me,
Not all of me,
Not the parts you haven’t seen.

Do you know yourself well enough?
How will you react to me?
What will you do when I show you?
What will you think of my darkness?
My pain? My weaknesses? My desires?

No.
You only accept the parts you’ve seen.
Then you make assumptions,
Of yourself,
Of me.

That I’m not that bad,
That there isn’t much more,
That embarrassment holds me back,
That you can save me,
That you would want to.

It is safer to hide,
To show a just little,
Just the parts that are acceptable,
The parts I have practiced,
The parts that work.

You don’t love me,
You just love those parts,
You just love the surface,
Your love hasn’t touched the depths,
It never will.

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This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Red Signs and Rainbows

Red signs and rainbows,
Nanna’s gone away,
Mum and Dad are stressed,
So many bills to pay,

Empty schools
Abandoned shops,
Empty playgrounds,
Broken hopes,

A fever dream,
Days drifting together,
Visiting hours closed,
Only memories last forever,

Daddy’s started drinking,
Mummy sleeps a lot,
Daddy’s getting angry,
Mommy’s lost the plot,

They are always here,
Adapt to the new norm
Survive till night,
Weather the storm.

Stuck in this house,
All is gone,
Nothing to do,
No place to mourn.

Flatten the curve,
Keep your distance,
Unemployment lines,
Struggling for subsistence.

Protesters amassing,
Ignoring science,
Just making it worse,
With their continued defiance.

Red signs and rainbows,
My child just wants to play,
He is going stir crazy
Every damn day.

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This poem is inspired by the book, ‘How To Write Evocative Poetry’.

You can read some chapters from the book, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.

The Writer's Prayer

I am a writer.
I have given myself this time to write.
This time is sacred.
I will not waste it.
I will not worry about the quality, worth, or potential audience.
I will just write.
I will get the words on the page, as they come, without judgement, without filter.
I will write because I love it, because I have something to say, and because writing heals me.

And when the time is up, I will let it go, until I sit down to write again.

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This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry