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- Mental health
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So yesterday’s task was to write a poem reflecting grief and loss. So, here’s mine:
As a toss the lilies on the earth
And say goodbye to you, I think what what life is worth without you. The world seems silent without your laugh, the stars dimmer.
A part of me went with you,
My heart is split in two, I place one half with you.
I wept for what we had and what we would have had. But this I cannot change.
I haven’t changed our answer phone as to me you’re not gone.
I boil with anger at why the world hasn’t stopped for you. The colours seem too bright now, the world is at peace whilst I cry.
To me, the light has gone and to me that’s how I want it to stay because the darkness doesn’t betray to others how at a loss I am.
Until you light my way, I want move on until you give me a sign. The old me has died too.
Ultimately I’m too scared to be reborn in a world without you.
“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”
Question: Using the techniques of caesura, pathetic fallacy and imagery try to convey a person’s emotions.
I’m in the race
Of life, sprinting
Questions tumble in my head
My stomach filling with stones
Too many paths to go down
With not enough light,
Which way is wrong and will I be right?
The sky is grey and heavy
Like my heart. I’ve
Got along way to go and
don’t know where to start
The winds of change are
Telling me to keep going
And then I’ll see
that as the sun burns
through the cloud, my
heart will lift and I’ll be proud.
I may be soaked in sheets of
Fear but as it dries
I know the end is near.
The finish line keeps
Moving but I won’t break my stride.
In the race of life
I can but only try.
The beeps of
the stat machine
are the beating heart.
The nurses and doctors
Keep the oxygen flowing
So that when a crisis starts,
We can keep on going.
The smell of antiseptic
Is the scent of
sucsess and hope.
Whilst the the warmth
On the wards wraps
You in a warm hug
To keep you going.
Each pill is dished
With tender care, the
Blue scrubs hide angel
Wings under there.
The food may be basic
But, for some it’s a decent meal.
The clean sheets and kind words
help to heal.
Yes, it’s under strain
And suffering a great deal.
However besides paperwork and
Budget cuts, miracles are revealed.
Life, death all happen here
Yet, only the unfortunate is
Be kind to our NHS
and treat with respect.
Often it’s a service that people
So fight for our NHS please,
Don’t stop! Otherwise we may
As well stop the clock
On the progress we’ve made
Because it wasn’t saved
Yet, a vital part: societies
these at least three years old
Thursday 10th September
When I write, I get a sense of euphoria. It’s like I don’t have to think about what to say, words just flow from my pen like a river runs through the steam. It’s as if I can truly say what I want without hurting anyones feelings. Instead of just having foot in the mouth I can rewrite. I guess you could all this entry a colloquial stream of consciousness.
Saturday 12th September.
Today, I woke up this morning to find myself in a mess, I only broke wind and it seemed had a
bowel movement in my pyjamas. Half an hour later, 20 wet wipes, a cold flannel, a few swear words from my carer and a clean pair pyjamas I was downstairs swallowing each of my eight tablets which I know will make a reappearance later and watching last nights second half of Corrie. Safe to say I was absolutely zombied. I had a little nap and later on my auntie Lainey popped round with a canvas she painted for me. its wonderful with all it’s pinks and blues, my writing inspiration. I then watched the gory but gripping Ripper Street with the delicious Adam Rothberg and marvelled at the victorian forensic science and even transgender issues! I then sank into a glorious bubble bath with my latest Adele Parks novel. Not long after I was back on the throne.. urgh! I write now in bed snuggled up in my duvet after a chat with my best mate and an impromptu football soiree.
Today has been full of colour; brown, blues and pinks, bloody red and soccer green!
Sunday 13th September.
filled with giggles and
the taste of ice cream
at the beach.
Filled with sorrow
because we don’t
want it to be
| write to give escapism. When my pen flows it takes me on a journey, wether that be my character’s or a reflection on my self. The pen gives me power because sometimes I can’t speak my fews clearly but with my pen I can rewrite it until it’s perfect.
I write to change the world, and with the pen I have the power to do that. I write to express my feelings wether it be anger, happiness or sadness, it’s become my therapy. Sometimes I think it is best to let ink flow, rather than blood. I love the TS Elliot quote; “The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”
I write to get minorities heard, I want to hear their stories, Just like Maya Angelou in ‘I know why the caged bird sings’ and Cathy Watson’s and Cathy Glass’s autobiographies about fostering. We NEED to have these stories written down to raise awareness.
If you have a story in you, write it down, don’t procrastinate!
Writing provides a way for us to communicate, through letters or poetry. Without writers how can have someone say the truth because we’re too scared too. Writer’s are like knights, the pens their swords.
I love this writing quote; ‘Reading and writing, like everything else, improve with practice. And, of course, if there are no young readers and writers, there will shortly be no older ones. Literacy will be dead, and democracy – which many believe goes hand in hand with it – will be dead as well. – by Margaret Atwood. I feel like it is my job to write otherwise people won’t read and be inspired and write themselves, the chain of writers will be broken.
I think it is an honour, I think to be a writer because after I die, my work lives on.