The Power of Words

I remember once, it was one of those nights where the weight of unspoken thoughts felt heavier than the darkness itself. The silence in my room was a stark contrast to the loud chaos inside my head, a relentless storm of emotions I could no longer ignore. My notebook, an ever-patient companion, lay open on the desk, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp—its pages a blank canvas for the turmoil within.

With each word I scribbled, the intense emotions that had been swirling inside me—anger, sorrow, regret—began to unravel. It was as if by giving them form on paper, they started to lose their grip on me. Writing didn’t just allow me to express these feelings; it forced me to confront them, to see them for what they truly were—not insurmountable giants but parts of myself, asking to be acknowledged and understood.

Poetry, in those moments, became my refuge, a way to distill the chaos into something resembling clarity. The process of finding just the right words, of playing with rhythm and imagery, was not merely an act of creation but a deep, introspective journey. It was as if with each line, I was piecing together a map of my inner landscape, discovering new paths through familiar terrain.

This wasn’t just dumping thoughts onto a page; it was a dialogue, a quiet conversation with the deepest parts of myself. It was in the stillness of the night, pen in hand, that I found a way to sift through the noise, to listen to the whispers of my own heart. The act of writing, of translating emotion into language, became a form of navigation, guiding me through the murky waters of my own psyche.

Here and Now

In this moment, pen to paper,

pulse races, ink bleeds vapor.

Not a trickle, but a flood,

words smear, mix with mud.

 

Rage spills, hot and seething,

across lines, barely breathing.

Love weeps, gentle, slow,

pooling in the afterglow.

 

Hope flickers, a flame in wind,

in each letter, tightly pinned.

Despair digs, dark and deep,

in the margins, secrets keep.

 

Hear it now—the scratch, the scrawl,

a heart uncaged, heeding the call.

Whispers thread through every word,

screams within, finally heard.

 

Loss’s rhythm, a drumbeat raw,

In every stroke, the flaw, the flaw.

Pain, it pours, a relentless stream,

staining pages with each dream.

 

Echoes of a shout, a sigh,

in the space where shadows lie.

Life, it spills, uncontained,

on paper, every joy, every pain.

 

Here, the essence, pure, unbound,

in the chaos, a rhythm found.

Not just words, but a soul’s outcry,

in the ink, where truths never die.

(2018, © Julia Delaney)

As dawn crept through the edges of the curtains, casting a gentle light on the pages now filled with my innermost thoughts, I felt a sense of peace. The emotions that had once threatened to overwhelm me now lay tamed in ink and paper. Writing had not erased them, but it had transformed them into something I could understand, something I could learn from.

In the quiet afterglow of a night spent in conversation with my soul, I realized the true power of writing. It was more than a method of coping; it was a way to truly connect with and understand the complexities of my own emotions. Through the simple act of chronicling my internal storms, I had found a semblance of calm, a clarity that comes only from facing one’s deepest fears head-on.

Shades of Truth

In the canvas of sorrow, where each shade speaks,

describing the hues of the cheeks’ tear-streaks.

“Blue” for the melancholy that under the moonlight swims,

“Gray” for the fog that in the morning dims.

 

It’s in the wording, the paint on the brush,

the softness of a whisper, the heart’s sudden rush.

“Sharp” for the pang when memories invade,

“Bitter,” the taste of the loneliness pervade.

 

Describing the weight of the emptiness felt,

the cold, the warmth, the way ice can melt.

“Heavy” as the blanket of night, deep and vast,

“Light” as the memories of a joyful past.

 

With each word, a texture, a sensation anew,

a sweater woven with shades of truth.

The curve of a smile, the furrow of pain,

in descriptions, my life I regain.

 

It’s not just in naming the feelings inside,

but in painting the picture, broad and wide.

The stroke of the brush, the blend of the hue,

describing my journeys, old and new.

 

In this articulation, there’s healing to find,

A balm for the heart, a peace for the mind.

In the richness of detail, I see

the beauty and pain of what it means to Be.

 

For understanding, for empathy, for grace,

in the art of description, my experiences I trace.

(2009, © Julia Delaney)

This journey through words taught me an invaluable lesson: that even our darkest emotions hold wisdom if we’re willing to listen. Writing, in its most profound sense, is not just an act of expression but a process of discovery, a way to uncover the truths that lie buried beneath the surface of our consciousness.

On the Path of Healing

In the quiet where heartbeats echo loud,

I name my grief, whispering into the shroud.

Words falter, 

stumble, 

then take flight,

a delicate dance in the absence of light.

 

“Loss” — too small, yet vast, a sea,

“Missing” — a shadow, where you used to be.

“Empty” — the chair at the table, where dreams once sat,

“Silent” — the laughter, the life we led.

 

With each term, a piece of my world defined,

yet so much more remains confined.

In describing, I lose, then find again,

a cycle of healing, a rhythmic refrain.

 

“Pain” — a word so sharp, it cuts to hear,

but naming it lessens the grip of fear.

“Love” — remains, in every tear that falls,

binding the past to the present, through these walls.

 

I search for words… 

they slip away…

it’s like trying to hold sand…

they do not stay.

Yet in this process, there’s something gained:

a sense of control, in a world rearranged.

 

This action of naming, of finding my voice,

is fraught with the struggle of making a choice.

To dive into depths, where darkness reigns,

and surface with words, breaking the chains.

 

It’s in this vulnerability, raw and sincere,

I find my strength, year after year.

Naming, describing, feeling it all,

on this path of healing, I slowly crawl.

(2020, © Julia Delaney)

Be Alive 🌱
Love ❤️, Julia

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