I ache to roll the dice of pain
Over and over

A sad die, lost die, lonely die
Help me with a new lover

Used to next to nothing.
Silver spoon is rusting.
Growing where Life doesn't.
Giving in at adolescence.

I am not confessing,
I need not a blessing.
Restless mind is wrestling.
Disregarding outward dressing.

Patient soul is resting.
All these things I'm testing.
Life is interesting.
Stimulated, manifesting.

On a wheel that's spinning,
Reaching new beginning?
Callous circle grinning,
Reminding me that I'm not winning.

Not much difference;
Delusions and Euphoria;
Love and Mania

Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.

Yesterday I was de sun
All light and warmth
came from within.
Today I´m but a ghost
people walk through me
both of us barely conscious
of the touch.
How I´ve changed...

There is a fever burning in my brain.
My thoughts awhirl, they fly too fast for me;
Ill-kept madness that I cannot contain,
Locked in mine skull, I keep hearing its pleas.
I can’t sit still, see my mind’s yet in flight,
Scorning earthly tethers it will be free.
In moody hatred and with petty spite,
It will the world condemn with fire and glee.
No regrets – Bring them, I will fight them all.
I don’t have an explanation for this,
My hate, once free, rises like bitter gall.
Laughter cries in the crannies of this bliss.
          For morning’s tender kiss my madness begs
          With sleep to scrape aside the addled dregs.

take a look at the first thing next to you
now imagine it but a hundred times brighter (all the time)
if life is a glass of water sometimes i wake up and it's filled with caffeine instead
to keep me running faster than i want it to
there always has been a spark in my eyes that wasn't natural
no one's quite sure where it's from but i used to think it was a superpower
i used to think not sleeping for days was a superpower too
it can be scary if you feel like a puppet that's forced to kick and hurt and attack
it can be scary if you can't make yourself stop
it can be scary if fun isn't fun anymore but danger
it can be scary when you're fragile
it's like a bubble in which there are no boundaries
the world has no boundaries there's only me and my ideas
and i seem to be way better than i'm supposed to
how can you stop when there's so much left to do?
(even if afterwards it won't be)
the world is bright and colorful now but it can go back to greys anytime
it won't go to neutral colors (it never does)
you can't shut it down if the "it" is you, if the "it" is what you're up against
if the "it" is constanly challenging you to go faster better faster faster faster
"it" is so fragile if you stop it for a moment there may be no coming back
there are so many fun things intense things death can be just one of them if you don't control "it" soon enough

when caitlin snow first got her powers in flashpoint she had to stop them
i always had a superpower and it will always have to be stopped

take a look at yourself in the mirror
now imagine yourself but a hundred times brighter (all the time)
if i'm a good person sometimes i wake up and i'm a goddess instead
(what can i be if not godlike if it feels like there's nothing that could possibly stop me?)
there's always been times when i felt like i left my old self to come back stronger and happier
i don't know if there's a happy because every single time i felt truly happy it was an illusion that doctors called "a chemical imbalance"
if i can dress up and be a new me who can dress like this who can do this
but if you'd stopped me i could be angry
(i don't know an angry me, i always forget her)
so i have a calm kind of angry-an angry where no one and nothing else can be touched or hurt but i can
when i was confused about sexuality websites were calling it "hypersexuality"
it can only be a superpower if i see lights and flashes others don't
it can only be a superpower if people i'm in love with have a halo over them
it can only be a superpower if i seem to stop the cars around me when i run through the street
if someone whispered "high risk, too impulsive" i thought fun and passion
the thoughts going through my mind always seem amazing
and i wonder if the people who've written the bible felt like this
if they did, i'm happy for them
i can never forgive myself for things i've done
(not sins, i'm too envious of people who are faithful)
but i guess it's not, not if there's a spark in my eye that can disappear, only on certain conditions

one of the last things on the wikipedia page for bipolar disorder
are the suicide statistics

It is 5:16 am and I’m sitting, smoking a cigarette out my window.
I’ve barely slept in days,
Everything around me is quiet and serene, not a single soul awake,
The only sound is the wind rustling the leaves
But my brain is on fire.
I don’t know if it’s from the sleeplessness or the million thoughts all at once swirling around attacking my mind.
But it hurts. A searing pounding in my head.
I want to do something fun
I want to do something reckless
I want to do something dangerous
I want to do something that’ll send adrenaline racing through my body just so I can feel alive.
I want to run away
Go on a ******
Party for weeks
Fill my body with drugs
I want to risk my life
Feel blood dripping down my skin
I want to do anything to feel my own morality.
This is why at 13 I was binge drinking every day and popping pills,
The substances were enough to keep the voices quiet for a little while.
But tonight I stay at my window,
Chain smoke another 4 cigarettes,
Thinking of all the juvenile things I could be doing.
This is what mania is like for me.
There’s little warning, just an itch under my skin of feeling stuck, or unreasonably bored.
When it hits it’s not like a ton of bricks,
There’s no immediate realization I’m manic,
It feels more like neon shadows slithering towards me,
scratching and seeping themselves into my body
Whispering, but still screaming, directly to the source,
Invading my peace,
My stability.
******* just let me ******* sleep.