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?