Writing As A Form Of Therapy

[Maggie]

It's so much more than painful

more than loss of self

no words express the emptiness

nor depths of helplessness 

when self help just frustrates

causing more distress

and friends fade in the distance

walk glibly from my dispare

there just no place of comfort

im imprisoned in my torment

i don't need bars chains or locks

im held inside my own relentless grip

is this my own making

why can't I just break free

how do I unlock the prison

where do I find me??????????

[Faith-and-Hope]

❤️🌹 @Maggie ......

[Former-Member]

Scars

S scars under the skin

C coming to the daylight

A attention to all

R reasoning does not work

S scars will stay forever

[Former-Member]

heavy door

blocks the light

blocks the exit

blocks the hope

dark room

takes the light

takes the hope

takes the life

its spring

spring has sprung

world will never ever 

be the same

why don’t you see the scars 

why don’t you let me out

why don’t you set me free

why don’t you send me light

alone, always alone

[Maggie]

@Former-Member Sending some of these. 💕💕💕💕💕

[Former-Member]

The Well

did you hurt yourself

falling down the walls

of the well we always used

did you try climb out

once you hit the water

the water you used to drink

did you cry for help

were you scared down there

cries no one could have heard

did you think of me

as the life left you

did you wish...

there was no sign

that we could see

there was no note to read

you left us silently

i don’t think you could choose

[Faith-and-Hope]

❤️  @Former-Member .....

[Appleblossom]

Powerful poetry @Former-Member

Hope you are coping ...

[Former-Member]

Not really. Another day to get through 😞

[Mulgajane]

How is it?

In a world bristling with lorikeets that I can feel so sad?

How is it,

that in each day - filled with love and small children

my burden is so large?

Surely it is not simply biological?

It makes no sense that one should simply be struck by a mental illness

and become this sad.

That is the singular, mechanistic view of my people.

My people - scourge of the earth

though I love them so.

I carried this feeling through my teens.

Perhaps I remember it when I was six or seven.

Christ - maybe I was born with it.

There is no one answer - get a grip.

But there is love and in love lies all the little answers.

And here I am.