Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Mazarita · ‎25-01-2017

Written in the here and now, on this screen...

slid

into a place where

long worn grooves of

deep body habit

flourish in the dirt

making mud pies in

a hot back yard the

taste is bitter

loving the ugliness of

the deep body its

sweat and its grease and

pungent odour its

freely unbrushed hair

and legs of fur

its old Lilith

brain chatters on

about this should and

that will yet

deep body habit is

worn so easily so

biologically the

brain is small

Faith-and-Hope · ‎25-01-2017

❤️💕 @Mazarita ....

BlueBay · ‎26-01-2017

It's time to move on .....

The time is near

to move away

from this old house

of yesterday

The people, the memories

that lived here before

are not here anymore

It's hard to move away from here

Gosh that pain is so damn near

My heart is aching for the move

But i know it's the right thing to do

I see myself in a new place

without all the rat race

of people everywhere I go

i just want to be slow

And as I sit here with tears down my face

i look at that dream of living in a new place

and see what wonderful life i have

but it's only a dream just for now

I need to break away from anger,hate

and bad memories of this place

But that also means cutting ties

with my folks

and as you all know this is the hardest thing

to do

cause all i wanted was to be a good girl

i know it's the best decision we've made

to move away and start again

to be with my own family

and no one else

But then the dark moments come back in

and i think 'what have i done'

'why me' why did they leave me

i have so muich anger pent up inside

i need to let it go

none of this is making sense

i don't know why i am writing

i guess i need to get it out

with tears just rolling down

it's time to move on

and pack and sell

it's time to start afresh ... oh well

Sehnsucht · ‎27-01-2017

Panic in the Bedroom.

Natural light dims, makes way for artificial,
The moon a discarded monument.
Walls close in.
The time is now, else all time is worthless,
Yet alone I sit, paralysed in time's debt.
Walls warp out.

My body, this vehicle of limitations,
Bears the brunt of frustration and fear.
Hands, feet, head.
The extremeties of my self, my being,
Fly at one another with urgency.
Flesh, bone, blood.

Exhausted, hands leave the arms,
Flesh leaves the body,
Breath leaves the lungs,
Panic, too big, too small,
Freedom from limitations feeling like death.

The walls breathe me in,
They breathe waste back out.
Choking on this, my recycled air.

It is more time I need,
Though I have no better use for it.

Waiting for the sun to rise,
Passing hours like a contagion,
Or very bad wind.
The walls breathe in,
Breathe out,
Vertigo and bruises.
The moon a discarded monument.