WRITING AS THERAPY
ELIZABETH There was no foreshadowing— only a power against life.
There’s therapy which may turn into money.
It captured her,
For now I’m climbing my ladder for clarity of self—
spiraled her thoughts to nowhere
of people, places, and things
like gray smoke trapped
To enjoy every good, writing therapy brings.
inside her mind, where the devil, a dancer in disguise,
PUSHERS
There’s therapy which cost money.
danced across her threshold,
Should I purchase what’s freely given?
waving a glass pipe.
My therapy lets me be me.
Where dreams melted into smoke.
Writing is my friend—provocatively real.
She died that night, leaving behind her studious life.
HIV/AIDS As with chemical warfare, AIDS is a thing, a social happening.
There’s therapy alleviating no pain. I may rant and rave, and rain myself a storm,
Behind the scenes,
An array of Pushers who dare…
but with no regret, I sail anew.
her somnolent spirit was kept on high.
Complex yet real,
To the valley of shadows I was pushed
Venting in writing is positively therapeutic too.
Every fragment of the devil’s heart she knew.
it is surely a big deal.
Was caught awfully hooked
He was everywhere in colors,
Is sex alone the cause of it?
Until I dreamt a stairway to heaven
There’s therapy which is one-dimensional.
enticing more the living dead.
Ever since human advances
In mine, I see sounds, hear colors, fly—
Wild Irish Rose red,
we became subject to it.
but my sanity is down-to-earth and naturally alive.
rock white hemlock chipped to crumb—
I carve, reshape, forgive—make right my own pie.
he defiled anybody.
Now we criticize ourselves
Those were the days before she turned to bone.
because of our own will.
Pushers, Pushers everywhere
Renewing my life unbroken. Pushers, Pushers everywhere Another sort I do declare
Who’s immune from it?
Could tamper with my sanity
There’s therapy which can make us suffer.
Where would I be with conformity?
My therapy, like family relations, transcends my will—
But she was seen taken upon the mound,
there may be inner complications.
as though divinely given.
straightforward into “Armes Acres.”
There are chemicals, cocktails—
Even through tears, my therapy enlivens.
Like a broken vessel before a potter’s mighty hand,
callous recommendations.
she was powerless as clay
Let’s start a new foundation.
Another sense I feel Psychiatrist pushes rotten deal. Pushers, Pushers everywhere
Iris E. Sankey
Even with the strong,
waiting to be molded by nature’s command.
One listening ear would’ve been fair
It was a power greater than any other—
As a rule, zoom in on your immune—
Not hard pills to swallow
carving her a gift, inflated with life.
its life is in your hand, like a mighty tool.
Holding on to my tomorrows Weaning I dare not forget I’ll embrace Holistic measures yet.
Iris E. Sankey
Situations
14
The things you crave,
Iris E. Sankey
the things you touch— ask yourselves, “Is my body in need of such?”
Iris E. Sankey
Situations
15
