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Sing me a sin,
And I’ll write you a love poem.
Ask for my soul,
And I’ll trade you some bones.

Collect all my pieces
Like baseball cards.
Tell me to leave my mark,
And I’ll give you new scars.

Write me a symphony
With the sound of have nots.
I’ll bury your sorrow
Where it gives way to rot.

Tell me you’re an animal
Ready to unleash desire.
I’ll tell you I’ve been burned
And keep away from your fire.

If my innocence attracts,
You’ll be sadly disappointed,
For it’s locked in a cage,
And my pain I’ve anointed.

I’ll be in white
On my day of all days,
And if you want to be there,
You better learn how to stay.

I am not a tragedy,
But I won’t hide my scars.
If you want to bear witness,
You must view depression’s old art.

There is a door that is locked,
But if you want to make love,
You must take care not to startle
And your hands must be gloved.

Don’t keep secrets from sinners
If you haven’t been a saint.
Show me your care,
And I’ll show you my stain.
You're talking in circles
And ever so fast

Lie after lie
You're trying to pass

Drinking and Drugging
Are making it worse

You think that it's helping
It's really a curse

You want money from me
That I can't do

You think that it's love
If only you knew

True love is resisting
Your pleas in the night

Your angry words hurt
I don't want to fight

If I ever give in
To your devils I fear

It will **** you for sure
And we'll both disappear
My adult adopted daughter suffers from bipolar.  She is usually ok until she gets bored and turns to drugs and drinking.  Hard to help, and hard to watch.
Tatum May 8
Finally doing laundry,
It’s been two months.
As I sit and I fold,
Careful not to leave wrinkles,
I can’t help but think,
How many more times will I have to pick up the pieces?

As I drive in my car,
Careful to go the speed limit,
The wind caressing my face and arm
As it blows through my windows,
I feel the melancholy sink in.
How much longer will I ache for what has been?

It’s sunny and the warmth radiates downward,
Embracing my body as if to say “Welcome back”.
I can finally feel it again,
My skin is a part of me,
Something I can feel.
How many more times will I lose this feeling?

I’ve spent weeks in a chemical haze,
But not one of my doing.
My brain had once again said “Too much”
And shuddered to a halt,
Spinning out on its way to a restless place.
How much longer will I suffer this fate?

Everything is different,
But it all feels the same.
I’m coming back now from a tiresome journey.
A blast from the past,
I am still exactly who I was four years ago.
How many more times will I lose my sanity?

As I pick up the pieces,
I can’t help but wonder,
How long will I exist in this cyclical race?
When they gave me the pills,
They gave me a life sentence.
How much longer will I last in this unstable state?

Unfortunately, I know.
This is a life sentence.  
I will always be at the mercy of these highs and those lows.
There will be reprieves from time to time,
But it will always crumble once again. So I ask myself…
How many more times can I pick up the pieces?
Kai Mar 7
I pace around, adoring each flower.
I’m not nervous. I just have bipolar.
I’m tapping my fingers for ten hours.  
I’m not restless. I just have bipolar.

I wake up four times during the nighttime.
My heartbeat flies out of my very chest.
Awake. It’s been hours since watching crime!
Alive. I begin prepping for a test.

My words bounce back around the four drywalls.
Like a child, thoughts scamper through my mind.
Abruptly I laugh. Then I start to bawl.
My emotions begin to intertwine.

I make mindless plans with seven people.
I say something out of pocket to Van.
Now I try to use a tattoo needle.
****! I just tossed and broke my only fan.
Just another manic episode.
Pretty Bicc Dec 2022
I don't know what it is that drags me down
After every episode, I feel it
I am not worthy
I am useless
I am ugly
All because of me
I pushed everyone away from me
Who was left, were you
I always feel guilty when I see you
You are there, holding my hands, hugging me, healing me
I feel guilty
You are there, hurt by me, crying, screaming, begging for help inside
Gets taken by the police and goes to the hospital
I heard it, felt it
I am guilty
Because I can't and couldn't be there for you
But hang on...
I will be there for you someday
When all this is over
I will be standing there for you
I don't want to feel guilty again...
Being bipolar is like
I am trying to seek help and fix all this happening to me. I don't understand what is happening to me. is this me or just how my life is.
Isabelle Dec 2022
You said you'd help me live my dream
Instead you trap me until I scream
Loud enough to wash you clean
Of all the things you think of me

Left on my own you think I'll drown
But really truly I need the sound
Of music to play and keep me down
From floating too high up off the ground

When I float it seems so grand
I don't need a single hand
To hold me, protect me from the land
Of my mind that's filled with biting sand

And what happens when you let me go?
Do I run and jump, magically better? No
Instead I fall and crash and so
You reel me back into the throes

Back to the stained white walls
And sterile silent deadly halls
That should keep away the thoughts that call
Me to push until I fall

How can you protect me from my brain
Fueled by the blood flowing through my veins
The chemicals messed up broken insane
Leading me to fly away with the cranes
I’m sick of the sads,
The come and go blues,
Tired of depression,
It’s becoming old news.

I’ve got the melancholy
Lodged deep in my bones.
It follows me everywhere,
So I hide all alone.

I’m exhausted of existence
That demands my great strength.
I’m out of ignition
And my apathy stretches at length.

This pattern starts at the beginning of October.
It stays through the winter,
I am like the weather,
Cold, gray, and bitter.

I’m sick of the sads,
These come and go blues,
The yearly cycle of moods,
I keep falling for the ruse.

I am sick of the sads,
Tired of depression,
Clinging to my sanity
Through its brutal oppression.

I am sick of the sads
That make it difficult to respire.
I pray for the end,
Lest my body simply expire.

The come and go blues
Have ruined my desire
For anything else.
I am consumed by my internal Hell’s fire.

I am sick of the sads,
These come and go blues.
By the time spring arrives,
I’ll be battered and bruised.

I’m sick of the sads.
Someone liberate me.
Send help on high horses,
Or sad is all I will be.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2022
Lawrence Hall

                                                You are not Bi-Polar

You are not bi-polar
‘Tis the planet that’s bi-polar
You are doing fine
Jonathan Sawyer Sep 2022
Epilepsy. Bipolar.

The words that we speak.

Shear words into our hearts, unfolding before our eyes. Both engrain a fear of desperation that speaks louder than words.

It isn't so bad when you understand them. Almost one and the same, unpredictable in their paths.

One has it, the other doesn't. The path that we both share, both unrequited. Like love. Still, like love.

We share.

Uncontrollable actions bloom forth from seizure to mood episode, blossoming forth an understanding that surpasses understanding to those to don't experience it.

And all that is needed is love. And understanding.

We share in that we both yearn for a world that understands our actions, never to be trusted from within. The pain. The uncertainty.

Are the same to those from the outside. "Oh, she has seizures." "Oh, he's depressed." The words we hear. "You're unreliable." "You're too much for me to handle."

The shame.

We deal with that which we cannot speak, yet we understand beyond words that comprehend. The path laden before us untrodden yet familiar. We push forward because we must.

And we'll do so again.

Together we'll conquer both or be consumed, unyielding to the torrent from within. Because we must.

We must.

Push forward.

That is the only way.
My wife has epilepsy. I have bipolar. They are similar yet worlds apart, and we must push forward.
Kai Aug 2022
What if the voices I hear are from God?
Then I am Satan, and we’ll stay at war.
I’ll strike him so with my ruby rod.
And impale him down into the earth’s core.

What if the voices I hear are from space?
I’m an alien with horns and a spot.
No one believes these voices are my race.
They do comment and understand my thoughts.

What if the voices I hear are man-made?
I shall sail the seas like Columbus–
through the stormy nights where I greet afraid.
I’ll find the land this man encompasses.

And I’ll ask him why he made me this way.
Does this mean I’m special– brought to a curse?
These voices persecute me every day.
They have become the air that I breathe.

My mind is louder than New York City.
I tell it to shut up, and it’ll yell back.
I tell my story. Some say I’m gritty.
How can I be brave? I let them do this.

My mind dominates until I have none.
Some of them complain more than my grandma.
Voices play games with me till it’s no fun.
They nibble parts of my brain, and they gnaw.

Oh, voices, voices, why do you taunt me?
It is amusing. I don’t let others bully.
I let my mind become the enemy.
**** these voices! You have already won, you, see?

I watched “A Beautiful Mind” by John Nash.
How can this mind be beautiful when it’s all gone?
I do draw what I see throughout the day.
I realized these figures took my mind away.
Schizophrenia took my mind away...
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