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Hawley Anne Jun 26
Led by only moonlight.
I wander till im lost.

I find myself in a forest
untouched by all but frost.

Its quieter than death itself
I'm afraid to even breathe.
I can feel the eyes upon my back.

I try, but fail to scream.

So lost now, what do I do?
I dont know my left from right.

The darkness seems to compress
I search for a source of light.

I look for any kindness within, the demons surrounding me.
******, vile, hate and rage are all that I can see, so I sit down and hug my knees.


As I pray " please someone find me"
Nat Lipstadt Jun 17
the isle is surrounded,
one if by day, and
too by night,
a thickening paste
of fog, condensed humidity,
and the mind smiles that
interloper explorers would sail
past by us, unawares,
for the waters are merely a
dirtier shade of green grey,
a "path" to follow and we
would be spared the noisy
pollution of politics and
and injections of identity
that divide, the tirades of
the overly righteous chest
beaters, who never question
their certainty, their compasses
always broken pointing their
"only one way"

sail on, sail past. this piece of
quiet tranquility, a place that
has just one of everything, a
sufficiency, a rejection of excess,
and the only melancholy is
the finality of passing of
the day lillies,
b u t,
the multi-colored irises, the
flowering of azaleas, rhododendrons, and the brevity
of the cheery cherry blossoms
of those;
secure, safe we are, assured that
their peaceful return is guaranteed
by the firmament and its secrets,
that, along with the overwhelming
greenery of this spot, for the
pleasuring enjoyment of all,
even the fog's quietude,
its surround sounds silences the anxious rapid heart beating,
slowed by one thought only:

Here,
herein is,
here within
lies the truths of
shelter

S. I. 2025
Internal journalist
Pitiful moralist
Brave declarations
Cleverly made

My words are a weapon
An army attacking
Myself - but my friendships
Are casualties laid
Psych Ward Poetry
Set 6, Poem 5
Mariah May 26
I love
I hate
I yearn
I ache

The pain
The chase
Eyes and ears and taste

The hands
That shake
Making love to my mistakes

Regret
Remorse
Embracing my own corpse

Change
Sorrow
Waiting for tomorrow

Paranoia
Trust
Drenched in pixie dust

Manic
Placid
The future's dipped in acid

Hope
Unrest
Bricks inside my chest

Friction
Freedom
Lies that I believe in

Tears
Laughter
Curate my own disaster

Chalk
Frost
Skin made up of moss

Tide
Concrete
Death before retreat

Time
Space
Stuffed inside a case

Fraud
Truth
The difference between the two

"I'm fine"
It's true
And if you actually knew
What could you even do?
I'm sick. I'm sad. Thank god.
Aster Mar 30
existing only in the memory, in the mirror
sublime image, a dotted line
wanting, crashing, writhing fatally
imaginary conversations, air drawings

no friend to call mine, intimacy denied
crunchy brain turning to foam
classes blurring, ears ringing
banging the floor till wrists are bruised

profanity, cruelty, pretty girls hating
feeling unwanted by boys (and the girls)
invisible or dissolved?

dishonoured, disgruntled, disillusioned, disenchanted
how right I was all alone
my subconscious mind sending tremors
       disconnection with my own spirit

"I am" I constantly whisper to myself
  in the little gaps of time I'm not dissociated
   fully aware of my material,
                                    not a vaporised form
that I assumed from the treatment of others

vapours solidify, vaporise, dissolve and vanish
G Valentine Mar 17
Borderline Personality Disorder...

It's this thing that lurks in the shadows, a feeling that doesn't quite always manifest the same way.

BPD...the silent killer.....or maybe that's what all diseases are. I'm not so sure.

What I do know is that I never expected to make it past 18 much less to 23. What I do know is that BPD has a mortality rate of 8-10%. What I do know is that I'm scared.

Scared that one day the hidden thoughts of my mind, those things we like to keep in a box, will soon find their way to the frontal lobe of my brain and send my consciousness soaring.

Scared that one day I'll finally get tired. Then, I'll get tired of feeling tired and then I won't be tired at all anymore.

Scared of my ability to hurt others even more than I hurt myself.

What I find to be the sick irony of the whole situation is that BPD manifests solely from immense abuse. You cannot be born with it, the mannerisms are all learned. Therefore, I am now forced to bargain my existence, tiptoeing through memories that should be long forgotten.

Trying to remember what my childhood was like while overcooking my breakfast.

Trying to shower but my brain continues to replay that time she raised her hands to me.

Trying to sleep....but my brain doesn't allow that comfort much anymore because those thoughts find their way into my dreams.

When we struggle, they like to remind us that "we are not alone". Yet when I dream at night, I am the one to close my eyes. When I walk into a restaurant, I am the one that can't sit with my back to the door anymore.

I want to give a special shoutout to everyone who played a role in me obtaining this diagnosis. If it weren't for your years of abuse, I wouldn't be living through the single most wonderful years of my life.

Without you, I'd be free and freedom from ourselves is much easier said than done.
Keep going kid....
can't wake up,
it´s not a dream,
trying to escape it,
with no way out,
just dissociating,
disconnecting from the world,
the feelings,
the thoughts,
from everything,
entering the void,
a simple retreat,
only I am there,
a time out
Mary Apr 14
Your life is an interrupted story,
No more than short-term blaze of glory.
It’s a metaphor that hits heavily,
‘Cause you’re your perfect mortal enemy.

Tunnel vision hides altered reality,
Your mind took up self-destructive morality,
Each feeling you’ve got is as deep as the ocean,
You lie to yourself that it cannot be poison.

When stars explode, the light is healing,
As it’s all dark you crush the ceiling.
You feel chills going down the spine,
You’re burning out, lost track of time.

And there’s no scream, it’s a silent battle.
It is vain to fix something that’s fatal.
You’ll never know why dead divine
Still haunts you and whispers: «You are borderline»
Phia Feb 15
I have this part of me,
A glaringly large part of me,
That I must hide from the world.
Symptoms, thoughts, feelings, and emotions
that I have to cram into a little lunchbox.
By the end of the day this little box weighs
a hundred pounds,
And I alone unpack it's contents
every night.

It's exhausting.
And I'm tired.
When I was 17 I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. My symptoms were so bad and pervasive that they diagnosed me before the age of 18. I have spent the majority of my 25 years in therapy. The sadness, loneliness, and wishes to end my life often overwhelm me. I feel like I can't keep friends. I feel completely alone while I battle this disorder. No one knows about it except for a select few. I feel like I'm lying to everyone. But BPD is so stigmatized that I think most people won't try to understand before they judge me and turn their image of me into my diagnosis. It's exhausting, and I'm tired and I just want to feel normal.
Regina Williams Oct 2024
the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m cold,
and my shaking fingers are
shooting missiles toward you from
fifteen miles away.
texting is the worst form of communication.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
can’t you ever answer the
******* phone when i call you?
do you even love me? do you
care that i’m in pain?
do you care that i’m waiting here,
alone, cold,
while you have your car and
some other ***** snuggled up under your arm?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what am i supposed to do,
leave you when you say you don’t care about me?
others have told me that i’m resilient
and i don’t want to make liars out of my friends.
i can take this. i can take this.
i’m not afraid of pain.
keep hurting me. tell me to **** myself
and i’ll kiss your calloused fingers
and worship you like nothing else.
i am on my knees
and the lentils you had me kneel on
are beginning to cut through my skin.
baby? do we still call each other,
baby?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
do you remember that morning
when you called me a fat ******* *****
because i spilled coffee all over the kitchen floor?
do you? because i do.
and i would crawl through the coffee and the
scattered glass like a dead man does through hell,
trying to get to something better
but knowing they never will.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i am not crazy.
well, i am crazy.
but i’m not crazy here.
here, i need you to hear me.
don’t just say you do-
actually do it.
pull my heart out and look how it
pulsates with love.
every beat was made for you
and you just won’t look.
you won’t listen.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i have put my hands
through blazing fire to
soothe your enormous ego
and you can’t pick me up
from the ******* bus stop.
****! what’s a girl got to do
to find a man that will
lick her wounds and devour
her fears? am i not worthy of love?
should i just **** myself?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i’m a mistake. i am unlovable.
i am a ruined being left alone by God to
suffer in this hell we call life.
everything he says about me is right.
i’m difficult. i cry too much. i’m too depressed.
i’m crazy. i’m crazy. i’m crazy.

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
what was i thinking?
i don’t need a man. i don’t need anyone!
i am more godly than anything up in the sky
or beneath the earth!
i am the vacuum of space
and i’ll suffocate those who think
i’m anything less than perfect.
why won’t he pick up
the ******* phone?

the bus is coming
and it’s raining outside.
i check my phone.
it’s 7:11pm.
the bus isn’t coming.
i don’t think it ever was.
This is a fake scenario. No person was a real victim of abuse. No persons were harmed in the making of this poem. This is a work of fiction. It is a look into the mind of someone with borderline personality disorder, spoken as a woman with BPD.
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