Writing

I had forgotten how therapeutic it is to write.  Letters, blogs, whatever I write, I seem to feel better after I get the words out.

I skipped blogging last night, because I didn't feel the need for it.  Let me make that a little clearer.  I've been blogging more recently, because I felt I needed the outlet and I needed the "therapy" of it.  Yesterday, however, I wrote a lengthy letter to a penpal, and I didn't feel the need to get on the blog and write.

Why is it that I can go for weeks, months, years without writing?  I know how writing makes me feel.  Can't I see the need for it to be a regular part of my life?  I used to enjoy writing poetry.  Lately, poems haven't been coming to me.  I wonder, though, if it's partially due to the fact that I've slacked off in my writing?  I haven't been writing, so my writing doesn't happen as easily.  Does that even make sense?

Here's the last poem I remember writing.  I don't know if I posted it on this blog (or elsewhere) before now, but even if I had, here it is:

the salt of my tears tingles on my cheeks
the drops trickle down until they reach my lips
and the tang brings back worse memories than this
i am overwhelmed with emotions that rush in
coming from memory after memory, hurt after hurt
you are a part of that and you don't even realize
that little thing was so monumental to my spirit
it causes more pain than you could even imagine
waves of sorrow, anguish, sadness, and grief rush in
the splashes on my glasses stain and gather dust
yet another reminder of what you have done
i could tell you what distress you have caused me
but that would be of no sincere help
you might half-heartedly apologize or make light of it
forever will pass before you truly feel penance for your fault
for penance requires tenderness of heart
that is something you do not possess
rather, your heart is stiff and black
no joy can be found in such a desolate place
but to those whose eyes from which it has been concealed
they seem to find your heart to be a cozy space
they lack knowledge of the deceit that you boast
this pain that results from your actions needs to be abandoned
forsaken and left behind to sink down, down, down
falling into the abyss that is this void
maybe then I can move forward
maybe I can be genuine with the world around me
show them the scars that are healing because of you


Um...does anyone else read that and wonder what was going on?  I do!  The date on the "sticky" I wrote it on (on my Macbook) is July 15, 2010.  I was clearly upset about someone and some situation that came about.  I have absolutely no clue who or what I wrote this about.  This poem is pretty shocking, even knowing that I wrote it!

Do you find writing to be kind of cathartic for you?  Do you have any poetry that you have gone back to after a long time that shocked you?  Do you have poetry you aren't shocked by, but want to share?