I am an ocassional poet. It is mostly driven by emotions, mood swings to be exact. Almost always, I write feelings that I cannot put into words. Ideas such as love, loss, pain, dreams are my favorite. I think it is a disease. Not the sort that kills you physically, but something that disintegrates your very soul. Others call it depression. I do not acknowledge that. Depression is far worse, I think. I do not want to compare my ocassional bouts with unspoken thoughts with something so much darker, and crippling. I do acknowledge the fact that everyone gets depressed, albeit on varying levels. How well a person handles the condition is not universal. This is the tricky part. Studies have shown that people’s personalities, past, relationships, and thought-process all determine how they deal with depression.
I would like to believe that I am borderline. I am generally a happy person, and I have days when I just feel like crap. And on days when I feel like it is the end of the world, I just want to write. It is my way of venting out, and it is also my way of healing myself. I revert back to poetry to cure my boredom, my idleness, my pain. Just like how it opened a world of ideas to me, I go back to it to find myself. Oftentimes, it helps. It has power to soothe even the weariest mind. I enjoy scribbling words that do not really make sense. No one reads my poetry anyway. Some days, I go back and read what I had written and I always find myself amused with the fact that I had so much emotion. I laugh at my silly ideas, my overly emotional posts. And that is how it heals me. It feels like reading another person’s writing, it always feels foreign.
Poetry has been some kind of therapy for me, and as long as I need healing, I will keep writing.


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