Monday, August 27, 2012

Writing.

"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint, can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation." - Graham Greene


Writing! Scroll Down For Poem by Arianna Hall
All my life I've written, no matter what it's about, I keep writing. There's something about creation that comes so naturally to humans, and in the end, it helps us in more ways than we realize. That's why I think it's so important to keep a blog, or a journal if you don't want it to be public.

Making thoughts exist on paper becomes significant to a human because you can do many things with those words. If they're special to you, tuck them away where you'll always be able to revisit them. If you hate the idea written on the paper, burn it or rip it up so you yourself can symbolically burn it inside of you, and forget it (if it's something you need to forget). You can also give a piece of writing to someone, or write something that you needed to say a long time ago but never got the chance to say it to them in person. Point is, writing is a very powerful tool and is very much an art form. Also, anyone can do it. And in my opinion everyone should. So! If you haven't written something for yourself (not school or work related) in awhile then go ahead. Open a word document, start a blog, buy a journal, grab a piece of paper.

See what you've been needing to tell yourself, you might be surprised. Some of the things I write end up to be poems. Here's one of mine. If you're some literature scholar then I apologize if you come to the conclusion that it's terrible poetry haha. And if you like it well there you go, share it & love it :)
Thanks for listening! Comment - I love to read them! Plus it gets you writing haha   ~ Arianna
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Home. - Arianna Hall

This home
is where darkness 
exceeds the faint touch, of light
Nothing but a shadow's breath
can be felt from every. vacant. room.

The windows
remain black and hollow.
With the face of death 
staring, almost mesmerized 
by the close. broken. life that is 
trapped 
within its walls

All warmth 
extinguished so long ago
that words cannot describe
the frozen feeling
of emptiness that's burred beneath 
the worn. ivory. keys
forgotten. in that, corner

A small light 
sits in the mute absence of creation
and cries softly, for love.
for meaning.
for hope.

She, the light
Reaches for the edge of security, 
for the warm arms of protection
But never. obtains. any. of these dreams

She cries to be kept
Not as a prisoner,
but a sister. a friend
Though.. she is nothing
but desperate filth. 

Equivalent to the dust resting on the
cold. wooden. floors. she sits upon, 
that reflect the effects of rigor mortis. 

The walls bow, hunched in sleep
Like the memory of 
summer's golden fields
They fall down. They fall on her
Till she becomes the floorboards, and joins the stiff. arctic. structure. Herself. 

Is this home

2 comments:

  1. Wow.....ur really great....loved the poem.... :)
    Wud love it if u dropped by my blog sumtym....

    http://scribbleyourthoughts.blogspot.in/

    ReplyDelete
  2. Loved this girl!

    My great grandmother gave me a written note before she passed and it is one of my most cherished sentimental possessions.

    Glad to see you writing again!

    With love,

    Karen

    ReplyDelete