I have always found writing to be one of the best forms of therapy for myself since traditional forms have proven utterly useless in the past. Whether it be writing for this blog, penning my memoirs, completing a journal, a story, poem or letter, once the negativity emerges from my soul and onto the page I always, somehow, felt better.
Some months ago I wrote of two people who I knew would eventually hurt me: one a liar and one a leopard who couldn’t change his spots (see Oh What a Tangled Web…). Both have since hurt me, and gone from my life.
Tonight I stopped crying, I wrote
Another unsent letter,
In a pile addressed to you,
Care of something somewhere better…