A poem can't fail
Writing can't end.
There's always more to tell,
There's writing to amend.
The only poem I think
That can actually sink
Is the one left unfurled.
Unreleased to the world.
Don't leave those thoughts
In your artist's mind.
Such a shame it should rot
When you have the time.
You have a story to be told.
Let the barriers of your mind unfold.

I'm equipped with a flaw
Under my surface.
How it got there is a mystery,
For there is no purpose
Of being manic
And causing panic.

My flaw is hidden
From the public eye
It benefits me
To not be scrutinized.
Unless I'm manic
And causing panic.

I'm medicated for life already
Even though I'm a young lady.
I need coping skills
And I might not be ready
For my next manic
Attack and panic.

It's all fun and games
And a great big party
To be so happy
And live so heartily,
When I'm manic
Which leads to panic.

My senses are enhanced,
Music moves my bones,
But pretty soon
The joy will be gone
Away goes the manic
On comes the panic.

My dose is increased
Much to my dismay
Because at the time
It's so fun to play.
Goodbye, manic.
Farewell, panic.

I flip through my inked pages,
Chuckling at myself.
Oh, the things you'll say
When mania sets your way.
Yet hard it is
To wear your heart on a sleeve.
Which is essentially what happens
When you write what you believe.

Every decision can alter your life
In unpredictable measures.
Every moment can be a
Disaster or a treasure.
Every breath you take can
Draw in love or exhale horror.
Every minute can add substance
Or can add painful trauma.
Every moment that passes could be
The best moment of your life.
You could be surrounded by
Loved ones, beauty, and blithe.
Or every moment can be
The worst moment of your life.
Overwhelmed with incredible sadness,
Maddened by grievous plight.
It's these little moments that
Make up our being,
Whatever moments pass us
And feelings we are feeling.

"You're a perfect person
And I ruined you,"
Were the words
Said to me by you
That moved me.
That awakened me
From my psychotic stupor.
The last time I saw you
I had just tried to run from you
And was brought away
In handcuffs so tight.
For three long weeks
I thought you were the enemy -
Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was my mind.
My ruined self.

The Buddha sits still
For hours, then days,
And soon a spider
Comes creeping along and
Weaves its web
On the Enlightened's
Meditating form.

Spiders are a girl's best friend
Or so they think, I dread.
They have started a trend
Where they appear in my bed.
You might find it laughable
They crawl to me when I cry.
Although the spiders are affable,
I'd rather be consoled by a butterfly.