mania means blackouts.
the violent situation
mania.
all the symptoms were there.
short fuse.
irritability.
full blown,
mania.
all of the time.
mania.
i couldn't sleep.

to most you say
a day
24 hours
and it is that simple
24 perfect little steps
to lead the way
and guide humanity through
an astronomical phenomenon
day and night

to me
a day is not
24 hours
nor is it 1440 minutes
not even 86400 seconds
i watch the milliseconds
the femtoseconds
speed by faster than
the photons that drive
the herd inhabiting this pale blue dot

how could they sleep through
the darkest moment of night
when the cool that
you thought couldn't be
on that cornflower blue
summer day
lazily flows across your face
and you feel the longing
that the fingernail moon
must carry for the sun.

how could they appreciate
every single exact color
as the sky brightens
lilacs running like chariots
from the sun still submerged
give way to effervescent
pastel pinks
like a gift for every baby girl
born that moment
until finally the sun pushes its way
out of the grasp of the horizon
and bursts like a blonde from a cake
bathing the world in its
mourning song for
the moon who always
slips just out of his grasp.

Tick tock
        Tick tock
                 Tick tock

It's already 5am
And here I am
Wide awake

As thoughts run
Through my head
Like a bullet train

Am I relapsing again?
Or I'm just on the edge
Waiting for a helping hand?

Or maybe I'm letting it be
For I've missed
Insanity to seep inside of me

Seeing that I am able to write
Shows clearly that
Hypomania has arrived.

Welcome back,
                 My frenemy.

I’m like midwest weather forecast
I’m stuck in summer
I hate the dead of winter
it rains in the spring
overall
fall is the ******* worst

My calendar isn't on paper
it doesn't hang on a wall
neglected pages to be turned
two months behind.

It isn't on my computer
in the cloud
synced to all my technological tortures
physically formed as notifications
short chimes to coax time forward.

My calendar is plastic
it sits on the toothpaste coated
counter in my bathroom
and I tell the day by which
of the seven perfectly segmented
little boxes are open and closed.

S, M, T open
it must be W
Wednesday
the red capsule and three white tablets remain
it is still morning
i trust my calendar
the light outside
or the absence thereof
can be a trick of my mind
day and night are not so
clean cut as the purple pill organizer
which contains my madness for me.

When things seem clearer
I approach my calendar
knowing beforehand which
cube on the string I must open
and retrieve these drugs
that keep my feet planted firmly
on the rich earth.

When I know the day
I rue these pills.

Why do I need them when
each day flows effortlessly into the next
like iridescent pearls strung along
into an unending sequence
of beads on a string
each one singularly unique
imbued with the essence of
the divine mollusk who incubated
this precious day?

When I can turn the pages
of the socially acceptable
calendar on the wall
I am a perfect imposter of
what is considered the norm
and I can look at days as
units in months
or years.

I stop living inside a partially
opened weekly pill organizer
and I am convinced
that I've taken up residence
outside of that gravitational
pull of the underworld
who buries me six feet under
to suffocate by the weight
of the soil pressing in.

My castle
my palace
is seated atop
a mountain carved into
the rugged stone
enveloped in a downy blanket
of cloud.

I'm miles from madness
light years from the person
who doesn't recognize her
face in the mirror
distorted
melting.

It is a seemingly endless summer
the easterly sun's warmth on my face
harking morning's glorious arrival
and hazy lilac hues dancing
an unparalleled pas de deux
with the sun's last pink rays
peeking over the western horizon.

My mornings are not
one red capsule
one white tablet.

It is a morning flight
free amongst the last stars
clinging to the pastel blue
of night's retreat.

Night is no longer
two white tablets
one yellow
it is sitting on my
mountaintop and watching
the god of the sky
falling in slow motion
imperceptibly lowering
into the horizon.

And the cycle repeats itself
in a euphoric loop
of twenty-four hours of heart-breaking beauty.

But the cycle is not in fact endless
just as day turns unfailingly to night
my cicada days
turn to static
and the churning black clouds
take hostage my paramour
the sun
and lost in the abyss of un-delineated time
I run to my mistress.

The weekly purple calendar.

its days like these
i wish i was another
another human being
with different struggles
the ones not in their head
affecting the way everything’s read

todays the day i want to be
inside another’s home
inside another head
just anywhere outside
outside of this place

the chaos of my mind
of my head
and of my life
i feel like i try
every single little thing
and every single time
i just end up lingering
somewhere out in space
out of place
even after everything
i’ve ******* tried.

i find a peace in these lines
with a black colored pen
whether i’m quoting my favorite band
or writing my thought

I CAN
fight these feelings
control those channels
and organize the walls’ panels
and sing my favorite song

all in between these light blue lines
everything turns fine

The skies are grey
The curtains blue
bed sheets white
and scrub sets seal
no phone, no tv
no outside for me

i’m in four walls
where it’s actually
the safest place to be

this tides not calming
keep it coming
the waves are rising
keep it coming
the undertows taking
keep it coming
it has me leaving

I was there when the atom bomb
vaporized a city
and burned flesh until all
that remained was a charred
silhouette
without face
without name.

I'm a bird in flight
through acid rain clouds
I am a woman without country
crash landed
from beyond the stars.

I have seen the edge
of time and the cosmos
and stood on the ledge
to contemplate the exploding
yawning abyss before me
a multiverse to transcend
the geological primitive
the infantile blue planet
locked in its calculated dance
with the sun
where I must constantly fight
gravity as it weighs me down
and ensnares me with its human
chains to tether me to the
terrestrial soil
whose corpse-fed worms
are more relatable.

Their whispers are songs
which hold the secrets
taken to the grave.

An alien wouldn't be so obvious.