The Cathartic Power of Therapeutic Poetry

Poetry is commonly defined as a composition of metric language, an artistic arrangement of words expressing the writer’s feelings, ideas and experiences, evoking an emotional response in the reader. I agree, and I would add that writing poetry is also a tool of processing and releasing. When a poet puts their pen to paper, the act is often guided by an urge to transform the complexities of the internal world into clarity. Pain, sadness and confusion get an opportunity to metamorphose into rhythmic beauty. Only on a second level, a subsequent layer, the writer’s intention is to move, inspire and, above all, to provide a sense of joy to the reader.

Consequently, poems are not always written with the intention to be shared. Writing can be a fairly ‘selfish’ act, an attempt to deal with the overwhelm of life - for oneself. This is where poetry becomes a writer’s therapy. As soon as those heavy words, however, are made accessible to others, a writer becomes openly vulnerable. Sharing is risky. It is our only hope that the authentic expression of felt experience is relatable, that it will move at least one person, make readers feel or maybe even inspire them. When a reader can follow the writer on their journey of emotional release, this is where catharsis starts to work its magic. “You have made me cry.” / “I needed to read this.” / “Thank you.” - The ultimate achievement and sweetest feeling of reward for anyone who has ever shared their written creation.

The therapeutic vulnerability that is inherent in most poems, is the reason why many of them are only published years after their creation. Time heals and grows emotional distance. It allows for any pain expressed in the written work to subside and for wounds to seal. This is when it becomes safe for a writer to share without shame. There can even be proud making one’s dark side visible after the bigger demon has been conquered.

The poem below is one of my examples where some time had to pass before it was meant to be read by others. Interestingly, I once thought I had written this for someone. It turned out that, while it was inspired by someone, it was ultimately written for my heart. It is my heart’s expression of its journey to understand its own modus operandi, its means of loving. And so it could be that the title in combination with the subsequent wordishly painted picture may always be true for my heart. I can definitely tell you that this one is dear to me and will always hit me different than many others of my own poems.

The Last Cut

There is a paradox alive inside me,
it is the art of my mind, my heart’s fantasy, my reality.
I am craving your love like soft chocolate fudge,
Wishing the indulgence came without pain,
A love that leaves a scar before it even happens.
It cuts through my flesh to the depth of my bone.
Leaving an eternal white trace on warm tanned skin
but it leads nowhere.
Like permanent marker
and I try to rub and scrub and scratch 
it off but it stays and stains.
And yet your mark on my heart is invisible.
Nobody can see the flame burning inside
lighting up my heart like a warming hearth,
melting away my protective coat.
What is left is pure vulnerability.
For when the sword strikes
it is the point of no return,
the drama’s climax, a tale’s end. Please,
Don’t prove the fool wrong in a foolproof story.
It was never your sword,
not even your word.
It was my own thoughts, who have guided you in,
who opened the door to my heart’s chamber.
You stepped inside with your shoes still on
to take over the space I had created for you.
As I stand in the light I throw my own shade.
It had always been me who passed you the blade.
And I’m still hoping for you to leave it unused.