Creativity Writing is an intervention I Love to use, and enjoy partaking in myself! Most just sit on my Laptop never seeing the light of day, however here are few I don’t mind sharing.
I’ll make a deal foot,
If I do the Physio,
Will you reduce the swelling?
If I moisturize the scar,
Will you stop that fuzzy feeling?
If I let you rest on a pillow,
Will you let me stand long enough in the shower to wash my hair?
If I make sure the cat doesn’t sit on you,
Will you lesson the pain?
And if you let me sleep,
I promise to paint your nails!!
Rachel Booth March 2016
Side room 5 – The waiting room
Waiting for the ambulance to come, Painful.
Waiting for the bedpan to arrive, Worrying.
Waiting for the bedpan to be removed, Mortifying.
Waiting for the call bell to be answered, Monotonous.
Waiting for the ward round, Stressful.
Waiting for a friend to text, Heartbreaking.
Waiting for a visitor, Apprehensive.
Waiting to fall asleep, Tiring.
Waiting to get washed and dressed, Humiliating.
Waiting for food, Hungry.
Waiting for leftover food to be taken away, Nauseating.
Waiting for the bad thoughts to pass, Torturous.
Waiting for the swelling to go down, Frustrating.
Waiting to hear if you’re on the list for the operation today, Scary.
Waiting for them to take you down, Butterflies at ever footstep heard.
Waiting for the physio to come, Motivating (when they came).
Waiting for a wheelchair, The worst.
Waiting for someone to open the window, To hot.
Waiting for someone to closed the window, To cold.
Waiting for some news any news, Depressing
Waiting waiting waiting to go home, Exhausting but really frightening.
Home, More waiting.
Rachel Booth – Jan 2016
This Place and That Place.
In this place, Feeling safe, Wrapped up warm, Free from frostbite, Stormy seas.
Mirrors reflect only light that delicately dances; Therapeutic paint splashes every barricade.
Music’s beating rhythm seems to pump blood. A playful manner rules the soul.
Yet this place is distant from that place, Trapped in a prison of paranoia.
That places, Which fuels the lightning strikes, Which changes with infectious frames, Which swells all valued morals into disillusioned debate, Where all thoughts of peaceful attitudes are eaten by conflicted views, Where innocence baffles the mind, and expendable Search for this place, Feeling safe, wrapped up warm.
Rachel Booth – 2003
Dark red, silver hooked, Lace-up boots;
Long metal tubes running up the leg,
Velcro circle at the top.
Lack of Understanding,
Exclusion from games.
Black shiny shoes with a key in the soul;
To be accepted
To be included.
Worn with pride,
Rachel Booth 2003
The other me
The other me would party every night,
But still be able to put in a full day at work,
Not care what others thought,
Not be paranoid about being left out;
Drive a Silver beetle,
and have purple hair;
Wear high-heeled shoes and borrow my friends clothes;
Be able to ice skate and answer those trivia questions
From the game dad makes us play, and finally beat my brother, the brainbox.
The other me,
Would read all those books,
Be able to tell you who painted every picture in the Tate,
Play a musical instrument and be in a band,
The drummer i think, like Dave Grohl;
Join in those intellectual conversations,
Would have been popular in school,
Acted in the West End,
Written and stared in my own thought-provoking heart-wrenching film.
Rachel Booth 2003