Poetry and writing

Unlike telling a story or writing a novel that explains every intricate detail a poem leaves you to draw your own conclusion. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket and my emotions were given a voice. The poem Past, Present, Future by Edward Webb struck me the most and opened my mind.

Life, lived; not by the, present, contained within the Now,

so thinking of a recollect  –  of what your mind will allow

means present becomes, neglect  –  and past, does future infect,

no change can be made- of what past has played,

to live in its control- decays the soul

thought of a future that has not yet played –

a worry of a nothing, means, now, gets mislaid.

no future is set – none should forget

if a present moment in now is given neglect –

a life will be stained with the inks of regret.

for only in now, can a person be whole – only in now, can a body contain the soul. His poem hit a cord and opened up the gates of hell. They were not my usual tears of pain and anguish but rather droplets of unexpressed feelings released. A voice had been found. I started writing and some days got out of bed, had breakfast and just wrote all day literally. The words just came flooding out. At times I would just end up in the corner of the room sobbing or sitting on the bottom of the recess of the shower as the story came out. I found myself writing in Gaeilge a language I had no idea I even remembered let alone could still write in but it just flowed.  It helped enormously with psychotherapy and with working my psychiatrist. It explained a lot of the confusion going through my brain. I was finally able to sort out a timeline because as I was writing dates were inexplicably falling into place. Work I had done under EMDR made more sense as it was given context and names were put to faces. It was truly as if a fog had been blown away from my brain and clarity had come. However, it made me more dangerous to myself. It increased the suicidality. The revelations offered no peace just more pain. Suicidal attempts increased and yet I still could not stop writing. I was driven to get my story on paper. I wanted to bear witness to the deaths of those poor children.

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