THERAPEUTIC WRITING - DOES IT WORK?

So, can writing or reading be a form of Therapy? - who knows? what I do know is Poetry and Writing have made hard times that much easier. Words can comfort, they always have and they always will. Mostly, we live our lives through books, whether we know it or not. If we have religious beliefs we more than likely got them from a Book. If we went to college or University, we learnt almost all we know from a book. Words are very powerful, especially when we are looking for a deep comfort or understanding, that is why Cancer Poems will work. Because words are a huge part of it. It is comfort and wisdom through words when people need that the most.

You can find out alot about Cancer by going toNorthern California Cancer Center

This is a sort of humorous poem, but one I find lightens the heart.

THE HARLOT'S HOUSE - by: Oscar Wilde
E caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.