Emotions soak up my vocabulary
With their spongy fibers,
Porous and clinging to my syllables
As if they were not mine to possess in the first place.
Feelings are like dragons,
Hoarding my words like gold.
I am hyper-verbal and hyper-lexic,
So many sentiments and letters to call upon,
But they are always out of order when
I want to tell you "I Love You!"
I say, "Please let me know you got home safe,"
Instead.

Depression is the swamp monster,
The murk and mud in the water.
It makes it difficult to see the bottom
Or know how deep it goes.

The sins of one man
Cannot be washed away
By old age or suffering
When his shadow
Has touched so many who
Will bear his mark for
The rest of their lives.
She says, "It is sad to see an old man in prison."
I tell her my sadness lays
On the banks of the river
Filled with the tears of his survivors.
Their pain cannot be abated by him
Contracting a virus.

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.

On the hard days,
The sad days,
The I miss you days,
Please come snuggle days,
On the days when emotions are more mountain and less mole hill,
More swing and less steady,
On the days when you gave your best and still felt short,
I am here,
Rooting for you!
You are always enough
Exactly as you are!

Her fingers dance across the keys,
Creating perfect melodies.
Next to her, I sit young and eager
To please my loving and patient teacher.
She coaches me on how to place my hand.
How lucky am I to call her Grandmommy Anne!

And then the brain chemist spilled
An entire bottle of hypomania
Into the *** of depression.
Hell has many names.

They tell me to write a happy poem,
A joyous poem,
A lemon yellow sun and soft blue sky poem,
A hopeful poem, an inspiration poem,
An anything other than so much sadness poem.
I tell them my hope lies in the trenches
Where the muddy toil takes place.
My hope is *****,
Is often beaten down,
But it is resilient.
My inspiration does not come from blue skies.
It comes from watching strong women weather the storm.
My hope is inky black and pink underneath,
It needs armor.
Sometimes my hope needs a weapon, needs soldiers.
I am often fighting a war in my body,
And yes this war takes place under lemon yellow sun and soft skies.
They are beautiful,
But they do not make me feel hopeful.
My hope is that one day I will get to wash the mud off
And finally feel clean.

My biggest hope
Is that one day,
I won't jump every time the door opens,
Hoping it's not you walking in.

I am the pit viper of poetry.
Syllables slam where ignorance lies,
The sound of education
Like fire,
How to lower an ego and raise up humanity.
I am both Lover and Fighter,
Medic and Boxer,
Words like a balm
Designed to soothe the suffering of others.
All pain is shared, easier to bear together,
And yet,
I reserve a specific set of sharp syllabic power
When it comes to defiance of empathic deficiency.
My words will stop a heart in a poet attack,
Locate the seams and examine the crack
To expose what is wrong with society,
Foster a sense of compassionate understanding.
And then, with gentleness,
I invite them to join me.
As a poet,
I have a responsibility to illuminate both the beautiful and
Ugly,
Resuscitate long buried emotions,
Bring love AND prejudice into the open,
And then heal them with human connection.
It is not a small weight to carry,
And so I,
I reserve the right to my fire,
The occasional sharp tongue to cut through the *******,
But then you will find tenderness
To remind everyone:
Even in darkness you are never alone.

Depression does not have object permanence,
Or it would know
That happiness is merely
Hiding.

Keep me away from myself.
It is not safe to exist in this body.

I will never tell them
Of the man in hospital chair beside me,
Chest hair poking through blue paper scrubs,
More than was on his head.
His locks like dull gray wires on scalp,
Jutting into the air as if charged,
Leaving a shiny full moon patch of skin on top.
I will never tell them
The way his beard seemed to stretch as he bent my direction,
Joining forces with the follicles on his chest,
The way his breath seemed to steal mine as he occupied my space.
I will never tell them
About the man whose name starts with M.
They will know I could not look him in the eyes to see their color.
They will not know how old he looked when he stretched my way,
Voice barely audible over the din
Of other patients screaming and thrashing in their restraints,
Yells of babies ****** out under drugged hazes,
The wild fantasies of diseased minds.
They will not know.
I will never tell them
How his muscles flexed when he stood,
Shouting at another patient,
The fight,
His eyes seeking mine as if for approval.
They will know I did not look.
I will never tell them how he took my hand,
Mumbling into my ear about how soft was my skin,
Arms draped over my wheelchair, uninvited
As I huddled under blankets.
I will never tell them
How my best friend watched,
My teddy bear given to me at birth.
Although not human,
I regret my inability to shield her eyes from this abomination of a man.
She will know that I tried to tell him no.
She will know that staff walked by,
Blind to my waving hands,
Unable to hear the silent whoosh of air passing through my damaged vocal chords
As I begged for their assistance.
I will never tell them
The way he rubbed my back or traced my arm
Before settling his hands too high on my thigh to be polite.
I cannot say more here.
I will never tell them
About the ice in my stomach,
Flooding through my body,
Already numb to my circumstance,
Afraid that he would merely lift my withered body from my chair
And do what he intended on the floor.
No faith had I that staff were the slightest bit of help.
The interest of other patients in my voiceless body
Was a welcome distraction to the psychiatrist
Doling out necessary medication to those more dangerous than I.
I will never tell them
What he did to me in the common area,
Stuffed bear the only one present of mind enough to bear witness.
Therapist has a word for his actions,
Not one I had ever intended to apply to my story,
Something reserved for the unfortunate lot of others,
Assault.
I will never tell them
His name like jagged teeth
Or the way his hands wandered without consent.
For in their minds I am nothing without corroboration,
And HIPPA law will prevent that.
After all, was I not merely a mental patient anyway?

It feels like the skin has been stripped from my body,
Like I am a raw house unable to contain this feeling.
Sounds are dissonant and salt to the wound.
My synapses are buzzing through every tissue.
I am so whole and yet so incomplete,
Angry, electrified, and scared.
This body of mine does not feel like a habitat.
It is more like a zoo enclosure.
I wonder when people will stop gawking at me
Like I am some caged animal.
I am wild.
I am easily provoked when afraid.
Please do not tap the class.
Please do not feed the animals.
Leave me where the ground cries out in anguish
For the blood of my psyche shed in the tall grass.
I was not made for this.
I am not a performer in some circus, some exotic parade.
They have stripped me of my skin,
And this body does not feel like home anymore.

She runs amok without restraint
In pursuit of the high,
The thrill of the chase.

She's up for a cigarette
And down several pounds.
You'll find her naked outside the house.

They can force medication
But can't treat denial.
The CPS case is going to trial.

Her bipolar diagnosis
Remains hard to accept,
But stability is better than manic distress.

She could lose it all quickly.
No time for delay
Lest she face an endless stream of regret.

I understand her pain,
For I've walked this road too,
But with the right help she can make it through.

I hope she'll make haste in  her recovery,
That she'll see on the other side
Is a taste of what it means to be alive.

It is impossible to measure the depths of my scabs,
And I wonder if they are truly healing over
Or if I have simply picked at them anew.
I tel myself,
"You cannot see the new tissue underneath as it grows."

My existence is like a million tiny stars,
All bright burst followed by infinite blackness.
It is supernovas then the space vacuum.
It would be  loud
If anyone could hear it.

They want to know if I went to Heaven,
If the moment my heart stopped,
I was blinded by the White Light
And the love of a Higher Power.
They want to know if I saw Him.
I recognize now that it is more for their own sense of comfort,
But the first time they asked,
My eyes met theirs with a scorn fierier than the seven circles,
None of which I saw.
They want to know if there is something out there waiting to embrace them
In warm and loving arms.
I cannot say.
I saw nothing,
Just blackness
Followed by the soft browns of the coma tunnel,
Bubbles sweeping gently around,
Shapes resembling sea stars,
The dwellings of an unconscious mind.
Sometimes I miss that tunnel,
Neither hot nor cold,
Jubilant or depressed,
Just floating,
Swimming almost in the vast entrapments of my brain,
Breathing in the liquid,
No emotions.
People might ask if this is my own personal Heaven,
To which I would answer ‘no.’
It was missing an achingly familiar face,
That of a friend,
Gone from this world too soon,
Much in the way I had attempted to exit mine.
They want to know if flat lines mean white gates and Heavenly choirs,
And this I do not know.
I find no glory in my own death,
Albeit only for a minute or two.
I find no great discovery of the afterlife,
Only the aftermath,
The physical pain,
The long and drawn out healing,
The fear of friends and family.
No,
I did not go to Heaven,
If there is such a thing,
For I know,
Sydney will be waiting for me.
In my coma tunnel, I was left all alone.

Sometimes,
I see the image of you in your white night gown,
Back at rigid attention as you binge watched
The same TV show for the second time that week,
So little life in you despite your posture.
I'm reminded of that terrible nagging feeling
That I really should turn around and walk back in,
Say something new and better,
Hug you tighter,
But I am late to the airport,
So I don't.
A month and a half later,
You were gone.
How I really wish
I'd missed my plane that day.

Poets are an interesting bunch,
All half mad at least.
I say I love poetry
When the words tear me up inside,
Stealing every breath.
I say it soothes me
Even as it burns me,
Begging to be released.
"We all know we're crazy," I say.
"But we choose this life
Because we can't live without the fever dreams
Or syllables controlling our every move."
The non-poet stares at me,
Uncomprehending.

There is no sanity in inhumanity,
No reason to reprehensible.
I should stop looking for answers
Were there were never any to begin with.

He says, "When she's manic like this, I can't keep up with her!"
He is lost,
Lost in the endless sea of my energy,
In the tsunamis of syllables
And the way the sun touches my skin, flowing through me.
I am a force to be reckoned with,
Daughter of the sky,
Made from dust of the stars.
They beckon to me with their brilliance
And the gleam of secrets they will not share.
I want to know where the edges of their shine go,
Want them to swallow me into their vastness.
I am a thunderstorm,
The gale force winds that shake the very earth he walks on.
My synapses connect at light speeds,
Weaving the strands of the universe.
I am a power,
Muse of the way the leaves quake and change color,
Poet to Mother Nature.
Of course he cannot keep up.
It is hard to run in flip flops!

Granddaddy Dan,
You were a man few in words
And large in heart.
You soared in a plane the open skies,
And now you've taken the final flight.
As I'm forced to say goodbye,
How I wish we'd spent more time,
But the hours we passed were a gift.
Sometimes love leaves no words
Other than "You'll be missed!"

Naked and so very cold on the floor,
Lost in the volatility of my emotions,
Consumed by the forest of my thoughts.
How I long for the solace of sleep,
If only the medicine would kick in,
Pulsing through my veins for the last
Weary bit of my mania,
Attempting to reduce the heat under my overflowing ***.
Dying feels like a release from this hell,
An in between of too much and not enough.
With a coin in bipolar coffer,
My soul springs free,
But I have already given so much.
I do not travel there,
Near the edge,
For I am so excited by possibilities,
But my chest aches with the sadness of this cycle.
I miss me.
If only I could find her.

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.

It is only right
That you should venture out
To pursue the higher mountain,
But how I will miss you
In climbing my own.

I can touch my stability with the end of my pinky finger.
It dances on fishing string or careful drops in shallow water.
A deep breath in or a flick of my finger could upset the balance,
Sending me swinging again.

If I stitch my heart on top of yours,
The tattered pieces
Will cover the other's holes.
I promise to keep you warm.
I promise you are safe here.

I am the washed up shores
And ***** of sea shells,
Sharp "Ouch!' and cut of feet.
I am sandpaper to gentle touch
and dissonance to your symphony.
I am the chaos they claimed
Only existed in your imagination,
And yet,
You still dare to love me.

It’s a light touch
Because I didn’t sleep.
I’m like a fairy on my feet,
Buzzing as I run these halls.
Try and keep up as I speak.
And they always told me
What goes up, it must come down,
But I just note the world
Endlessly goes round and round,
And please don’t call me
Back from this ledge, from the edge, this epiphany.
Mania is like all the world shone a light inside of me.
It’s too bright.
I try to close my eyes but it’s too bright.
Someone say the party’s over.
Send the voices home.
I don’t like the way they sound.
I’ll be better
6 to 21 days from now.

Yes,
I knew it was coming.
No,
I wasn't ready.

I wonder if Death knew the last time he touched me
That I would be ripped from his hands yet again.
Too often has he held me in his arms.
The Reaper and I are old friends.
I often wonder if he's lonely.
Does he miss the gentle souls he doesn't get to take?
I sometimes miss our dances,
The Foxtrot of Farewell,
But I'd like to think he's proud of me
That I no longer need to hold his hand.

It seemed like the world would go on forever,
Stretching past the horizon
As his mouth formed the words
"You have Bipolar disorder."
In that moment,
The air froze,
And time stopped.
Suddenly the atoms were abuzz again.
I knew
He was right.

He attempts every method of contact,
Of intrusion,
As if I will somehow forgive him for breaking me,
Apologize one last time for HIS behavior.
What he does not know is that
Every crack he instilled
Only made me realize how much
I did not want to be broken anymore.
The sound of the last break
Was the front door,
Closing behind me.

You are a symphony of skin,
Perfect harmony of two souls.
You are the quarter rest of skipped heartbeats,
Electric run of mind,
Thoughts cascading
Like 16th notes descending the treble clef.
You are the forbidden crescendo,
Pulse rising to the tune of lips melded together.
You are my favorite melody,
Wild, unique, so familiar and yet new,
Playing in my mind on repeat.

I long for the day when
I will be able to sleep
Without the memories silhouetted
Like silken slinking specters  
Across my barren walls.

The only thing I ever learned to flirt with
Was danger.

I don't think I'll ever have words
For how much I miss you this time of year,
For how painful it is to have lost you,
Or how grateful I am to have known you.
I am always searching in the darkness
For a sentiment that carries enough weight
To say how sorry I am you did not think your absence would be missed.
If anything, I miss you a little more every day.

He doesn't like a girl with a ***** mouth,
Wants to water you down and wash you out,
Make you change all the things about you,
Fill you to the brim with your own self doubt.
He swears he doesn't like to play any games,
But the only word on your tongue should be his name.
Little girl, you better run so fast
Because you'll never need a man like that.
You'll never deserve a man like that.

I am queen of internet research,
Of "questions to ask on the first date"
And "when is it appropriate to 'make it official?'"
"How long should I wait to say 'I love you?'"  
I am queen of second guessing what my heart is telling me
Because I never learned the rules everyone else seems to know.
I never learned that there was a time frame
For missing the way you smell as if I am missing a star of the universe
Or the way your eyes are alight with excitement
At the mere mention of our winged and feathery brethren.
I never learned that there was a 'too soon'
To losing the mask I have reserved for so many
Or how it would feel like breathing not to wear it around you.
You asked me what I thought love meant.
I told you,
"Love is when you care about someone so much
You want them to be happy and healthy and full
Even if it doesn't serve you.
Even if it doesn't include you."
There is no beginning or expiration date
On wanting you to be happy and healthy and full.
There is no appropriate time to say
"Fasten your seatbelt!"
"Please drive safe!"
"Make sure you eat!"
"I hope you get some rest."
"Please be careful!"
"I really like you in one piece!"
"You are a good human with nothing to be ashamed of!"
To me, there is no appropriate time to say "I love you."
I've been saying it in more words,
In the way we talk about 'attack chickens' at 2am
Or bringing you a stuffed moose to prevent you petting a live one.
It is playing in snow in pajamas because I love how you glow
With childlike wonder.
It is dancing in the aisles of Target
And how much I enjoy simply buying laundry detergent with you.
My "I love you" is three words
And a million tiny ways I've been saying it otherwise
Because I had always been told that now was 'too soon.'
It isn't.
I am just in time to love you!

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.

My life depends on the contents of an orange bottle.
Without it,
I am on a neurochemical rollercoaster,
Lap bar refusing to pull down.
As the apex of the loop nears,
I must hold on lest I fall and crack my head on the depression below.

The electricity flows through my bones,
Making love through my synapses
As it courses through my system.
I am alive with the buzz,
The heat and cacophony.
I must share this with the world,
Charge the very air with my existence.
I could power the whole universe
If only some of it would leave my body.

My heart has broken every day
Since the moment you went away,
And though there are tears I long to cry,
My eyes have stayed unyieldingly dry.

The ache has faded and left the truth.
Gone are the days I counted as youth.
And though I thought I was grown,
No loss like this had I known.

I didn’t suspect you’d take your leave
Or that you’d be the one to teach me grief
So that I would know as hours passed
That those we love don’t ever last.

Oh, how far you and I have come
Since we counted up the sum
Of suffering shared and what it meant
To be unbroken, only bent.

How I miss you in my dreams
And in the silent painful screams.
I chase your footprints up those stairs,
No longer running; you’re not there.

I think of all the times I went
To your aid; my ear I lent
And drew you into strengthening hug.
The flow of tears with thumbs I plugged,

Whispered softly in your ear,
No need to cry for I am here.
I hope you felt my tender love.
If not, you know now up above.

And though I wish you’d made a different choice,
I still respect your timeless voice
And remember how you spoke my name.
I hope you know I felt the same.

Find me infinity
So we can travel there together.

Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done.
It's simple, like breathing,
Deeply ingrained and automatic,
Necessary and fresh like the air.  
Remembering that you will love me too,
Even if I am unconventional at times,
Even if my brain is more difficult some days,
Is harder.