I am a figment of your imagination,
A specter of the night,
The shadow passing as the sun rises.
My reality is intangible,
As fleeting as daylight hours.
Do not search for me in the dark hiding places.
You will only feel the breeze of my existence,
Fluttering by unnoticed.
My poetry longs for the disorder,
For the way mania smells like stardust
And tastes like bubblegum clouds.
It craves the buzzing energy like angry bees
Or champagne bubbles in my bloodstream.
Poetry finds beauty in the depression,
In the way sunrises fade to gray
Or food turns to ash in my mouth.
Poetry does not care that 1 in 5
People with bipolar will take their own life.
It is only searching for more syllables to intertwine.
I must be concerned with the consequences,
Diligent in my course of action.
It is the first time in my life my poetry and I do not agree.
Stability may not be poetic,
It is hard won and jagged edges,
But I would not trade it for syllabic symphonies.
I hope stability will be mine to keep.
Find me infinity
So we can travel there together.
Sometimes I wonder
If those who've never experienced the grueling lows of depression
Truly experience the moment
When the sun catches your soul in just the right way
And you finally feel warmth in your bones.
My heart yearns for the way
I feel in her presence,
For the candlelit warmth
And melted wax flowing over my soul
As it casts out this winter's dying embers.
My heart yearns for her heart
Like two strands longing to be coiled into rope,
My skin longs for her softness,
For the gentle caress on valleys of skin.
My ears long for her 'I love you,'
And my mouth so desperately wants to say it back.
Sweet Love of mine, we are almost there.
There is no sanity in inhumanity,
No reason to reprehensible.
I should stop looking for answers
Were there were never any to begin with.
Night time is how you know it's under your skin
When it slips in insidiously
Like a nightmare or memory
In the weird in between hours
When your hope is fast asleep
But your mind wide awake.