Writing Is A Catharsis.

It’s a cleansing of old wounds,
reopened by trials of daily fire,
a catalogue of past error
dumped in the history bin,
a soothing of the spirit
badly bruised and battered,
a massage of the ego
in the absence of kind words.

All I need is a pen,
a notebook and
five quiet minutes
in the park.
It’s easy,
it’s cheap,
it’s far more effective
than a therapist’s couch

by Nicholas Bartholomew

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