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A fearless vagabond that I have turned into, Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare. I am in no haste, Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps. Your stares that I descry, No more make a difference to me. For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires. It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same. I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life, I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.

For all the stabs faced, Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame. The truth could be my lingua franca, Forlorn be the brethren of my creed. Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border, Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.

Catharsis: My Poem

To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement, For it is never an evanesce,too late. I fear no hell or purgatory, For I have witnessed worse in some eyes. Victimization is a poor retreat, To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat. Patience is my dagger to time, And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand. To trail back, Is not for me that fatal. I emancipate the baited, And buster am I of existing parasites. Liberty is my boundary, I would dare not to annihilate a choice.

But I do not condone either, For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go. I am relentless, I would not mind if you address me as a bovine. I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here, An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified. Jaycub J Feb 2. Cloaked in organic philosophy I sit cross-legged mind stretched on the balcony. Flute of the ancients drifts cleansing the melancholy tumbleweed through sweet sounds forward calling me. A candle guides into bliss. Reflections of presence. The flame of what is. Moments I own, Or rent. Passing like landscape through glass in the passenger car on this mountain descent.

Claws of the eagle soaring grip my heart without warning. Grip slips, dropped, split on a rock in a field. Heart opens with cathartic feel. Reveals another layer, Peeled. Pain of the beloved Pleasure when it heals.

A poem a day keeps the Alzheimer’s away

Back To the breathe. Inhale into infinity, Exhale into death. A chime reminds me of time, Refreshed. My life I resurrect! Sunlight enters, And I nod in respect.

Exercise, Rhyme and Freeze - Rhyming Words for Kids - Exercise Song - Jack Hartmann

Altigani Feb 3. Lull me to life. Say something cathartic, Because crying was not, Sing me warmth, because I am the arctic, I wish I wasn't, but this is the life I got, Help me build a smile, As my face is stubborn and persistent, It'll be difficult, it'll take a while, Make it gentle and never distant, Help me sketch my youth, Stand by me, and watch it all unfold, As the sketches bind to reality and become the truth, But it all seems like distant reality, and my breath I'm unable to hold. Julian Aleks Hope Nov Poetic Love.

Let’s Read a Poem! What Type of Poetry Boosts Creativity?

I crave an old romantic, poetic love Of broken chimes and crushed foxgloves Of coffee stains upon the table, And early light slipping through the window Of shuttered eyes and tired hearts, Of hopeful lies and ancient arts, A love sweet off wild honey, And of fresh bread and melancholy Of battle wounds and salty tears, Of lasting throughout the years, Of endings bitter and yet cathartic Of weathering an endless arctic, And love with a thread-bare string, A wish, a tender, tethered thing, I crave an old romantic notion Of tested, sure emotion And love, that which does not age, Manifests so easy, off the page.

Jayne E May Smell of the Monster. It was set as a cathartic exercise for me, by a wonderful wise caring writing mentor of mine, to try help exorcise some historical demons, and in doing so, lay some pain and painful memories, nightmares, etc to rest.

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I don't usually like to offer explanations of my poetry preferring the reader assign their own meaning, formulate their own emotional response, but had to make an exception here. Thank you for reading, it is often a 'taboo' subject matter, but it needs to be talked about. He smells of things longed for, a confusion occurs. It's the smell of a day spent playing at the beach, of sea, sand, salt and sunshine, in his tousled blonde hair like lemon blossoms blown past on nights summer breeze, and of the deep dark earth beneath these trees It's a whiff oh so small subtle of pinetarsol and bleach, maybe that will alert her to this lecherous leech.

Smell now the blood as it drips down my legs down my thighs, he has unpealed my screams deadened my sighs and my eyes. I can smell my own sweat my blood and my fear, and now I smell him stronger, as he moves closer near. For now it's all sweetness, he plays his part well, pajamas and tuck-ins, a kiss on my forehead and then "night night" and one last whiff of his stink, as I lie murdered, in my child's bed Diana Jan 2.

The Endless Volume that Silence Carries. I've learned to accept that Sometimes The best response To certain questions Happens to be your silence It possesses the power To speak emotions That words cannot So accept silence Listen to what it has to offer Embrace it Knowing that it has the ability To bring cathartic consolation When you Or someone else Crave it In the most dire times.

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  • Sometimes cliches aren't good enough to convey how you would like to respond to someone. In fact, they might be worse than saying nothing at all. However, silence can be stronger than words will ever be. John F McCullagh Nov The great Gummy Bear war. On each other's nerves- they'd be hell to pay. Someone brought in gummy bears in a big sack. It all seemed so innocent until the attack. The boss got it first; a gummy bear in the ear. Then he and his partner got a hand in the sack.

    There would be hell to pay as the empire struck back. His aim was unerring as he spun to attack there were gummy bears everywhere, being tossed fro and back Poor Anita the admin got one stuck in her hair. All sense of decorum had vanished that day. As ten 50 year olds got lost in their play. It was very cathartic as you can imagine as so called adults got to play with abandon. The a truce was declared and we all felt contrition because we had eaten all the ammunition.

    Lisa Jul I was teased into thinking it would work, destroying you would destroy me. The law of conservation of mass? I have a chip on my shoulder? I have expectations, I have regrets, I have no idea what I want. There's nothing I want there's no one I want there is not one thing I want. Anonymous Jan 7.

    The Blade In My Pocket. There is no point in living this life unless you find someone or something to love. A person who you would want to spend the rest of your life with or an occupation that you are passionate about. But maybe, this should be seen from a love recipient's perspective. We all want to feel loved. However, it will soon overwhelm you. You would think that you do not deserve the joy and happiness that you feel when you are with this person.

    Soon, you will think that he is too good for you. One might not be ready to receive the love that is being given to us. This person is so full of love and you are full of filth well, at least you are not nothing. And it fills you with guilt that you can never make the person feel the same. Funny thing is that you don't even ask for him to love you. He just does. And that becomes more painful than ever. Having that thought in mind makes you just want to leave to prevent the heartache and the burn out which the love of your life will suffer from. But you do not have the strength to break up with him because that kind of blow would be too hard that you would painfully hurt him.

    It seems as if having him burned out is the better way to "break up" with him because at least you think that it would be his decision to leave. It gives you this sick comfort that he left and you have confirmed your filthy self-concept. You have confirmed how undeserving you are and proved that you are the worst person to be with him. But, he still stays. He still stays despite all your filth being thrown at his clean self. You have shown most of your darkest thoughts and he still chooses to stay. And it hurts you more because it would now be too hard to break up with him and hurt him because now you care more and this person has become the person who is preventing you to quit life.

    He is a hindrance between your wrist and that small, sharp blade that will surely deliver what you think you deserve. You clearly still do not have the strength to let him go that quickly sick selfish wimp. Now, you are stuck with a dilemma and all you can do is cry your eyes out. It's the only cathartic way that will allow you live another day for him until the day he gives up. It seems chaotic now. Everything else is falling apart from this one man who stands in the midst—all clean and smiling—offering you a nicer future.

    You are not sure whether to take the hand or the blade. But, tonight, you take the hand yet you keep the blade in your pocket. Now, you carry it around while you walk with him hand in hand. And now, you just made your situation almost impossible to solve. I am deeply in love with someone. I love him so much that I feel like I would never ever be able to match the kind of love I perceive him giving.

    This essay has been that strong, little voice which seductively whispers to my ear saying that I am not enough, I do not deserve such beauty and love, I will never be anything but a thorn in his side. But his patience, his genuineness, and his love do little wonders. He never invalidated what I felt and he listened instead.

    He listens and talks to my pain like a grown man listening intently to a child's "delusions" but never insults the child's words, mind, and feelings. He has been nothing but patient, understanding, and sweet. Like an angel caressing my demon—calming it down. He never waged war with it but has only offered a shoulder for it to rest after its exhausting attempt to sway me to my devil's mind.

    If struggling, moving, and living with my demon is the only way to deal with this then struggle, move, and live it is. AJ, my love, you are not my knight in shining armor for you have been more than that.

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    Poetry also helps the elderly recall past experiences, in turn helping them with memory and integration. This helps them understand and act upon matters that they can improve on. Poetry provides the antidote to a culture that is constantly racing against time and discarding anything found to not be useful. At a time where the aged are being put in nursing homes and left behind, it serves as a soothing balm in its need to be slowly read in order to be absorbed and understood, its deep philosophical approach to life and its relevance to the vast array of emotions these elderly have experienced throughout their lifetime.

    Poetry can help make logical and figurative connections, forcing them to actively think, which may help with memory disorders and impaired reasoning. Some say that poetry is now becoming extinct in a culture where modern technology is being consumed at an increasing rate. But if one looks at the other side of the coin, the influx of technology, especially mass communication and social media, has greatly expanded the extent to which poetry can be shared and read.

    Social networking sites such as Tumblr and Instagram have many accounts completely dedicated to poetry. In a way, social media is both the problem and the answer, as it is now much easier to access poetry online and virtually anywhere. The beauty of poetry as a promoter of mental health stems from its volatile nature.

    It can also function as a powerful symbol through metaphors and conveys stories in its own unique form. Post a comment on Facebook. Click here to cancel reply.