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Patricia LeDuc Apr 2018
How did this happen?
What did I do?
I try to control it
I try not to believe it
It happens so fast
Not much I can do
Manic...x...two

I scream and I cry
Oh no not again
I know the symptoms
But they creep up to fool me
Tried distracting it
Tried to watch TV
Walk around and around and
Around the room

Manic, manic, manic
Top of the room feeling panic
Whoopee Bipolar is here again


Hoping my feet touch the ground
It follows me
My brain...is not sound
It beckons me still
Again and again
I take the good and the bad
Trying to cope
Holding out for hope
9/30/16 written by Pat LeDuc
Bipolar is frame of reference to a normal life
Unobtrusive Apr 2018
Manipulative, malevolent, mystified
Inevitably inverting our introspection
Waning away collected calculation

Like calcified cancer;

Contouring colors of passions
Which fasten franticly to oblique reactions
As fantasized antics;

Crafted daintily in packets
Jacketing the tactlessness behind the fanatics.

Hopelessly happy, helplessly harrowed.

Mania
Beau Scorgie Apr 2018
I danced
under savage flame
and the sound
of wood splitting.
I could not see
that I burned down the house
until the moon set
and I stood cold
amidst charcoal
that crumbled
in my palms.

The books we read,
vinyls we spun,
letters we wrote,
clung to my skin
like a crime scene.

He was blackened too -
watching from afar
as I danced
and sowed gasoline
over everything
he loved.

He was blackened too -
and crumbling
within my palms.
Waiting from afar
for the last ember
to die.

I burned down the house.
Again.

But he picked me up
and carried me
to our bed.
Scorched -
where we cried in agony
at a whisper
across our skin.

Every sunrise
we're washing the charcoal
from the sheets
and purging cinder
from our lungs.
Planting seeds
where foliage
was lost.

We wait now
for the day
the flames in our eyes
become another Polaroid.
For the day
we can laugh
at how I burned down the house,
and finally saw
the mxthxrfxckxr crumble.

Yet still,
he doesn't
break.
Devin Ortiz Apr 2018
I was to supposed to write of the Thunderstorm.
High winds. Pouring rain.
Uprooted trees. Burning wood.
A terribly terrific piece.
But, I let the words float on.
Drowning in a sea of unwritten dreams.

I was supposed to write of the Dancing Flame.
Rocking embers. Glowing rhythm.
Sweet cinder. Smoking desires.
A horrifyingly honest part.
But, I let the words smolder into ash.
Going down in an arsonist's dream.

But mania, oh mania.
Writing everything about nothing.
But me, oh me.
Writing nothing about anything.

I was supposed to write,
But didn't.
You're the Apple of my eye, the laces of my shoes, the breath of calm after an anxiety attack or heavy cry. You're the hand on my leg telling me I'm safe, the magnet which magnetised the needle in my homemade compass. You're the net of a dreamcatcher, the final **** after a long and exhausting hunt. You're the sensation of being warm and naked after a cold and wet day out in the snow, you're the report card with straight A's. You're there toe beans of a cute cat and the contagious laughter of a newborn too naive to realize that everyone in the room is only laughing because they keep laughing harder, the positive feedback loop exhausted by cheeks too tired to smile and a diaphragm too used to move.

The sensation of being tucked in, but not too tight. The phenomenon of waking up in your bed because you passed out on the couch and your dad carried you in.

You're the dream where you fall in love and everything is perfect and great, but when you wake up you carry over that charm into your day to day life and everything starts to go your way. You're the fortune cookie with a fortune of the numbers 3,4,8,17,20,26,38,48,70 and the phrase saying "your long held-onto grievances will vanish soon, you will find your peace."

You are the learning, growing pupil of the Master of the Way. You are the concept of fairness and rightfulness, of non-ownership and laissez-faire government and home. You are the beacon, cooking a warm meal at the stove, so tuned into her world. You are the day dream, where the ordinary melts and the extraordinary takes over our surroundings and enchants our creativity while boosting and fanning that little flame in our hearts that keeps us going.

You are the first kiss of morning, with morning breath so stagnant from an unexpected ****** release at 4 am and an explosion of positive neurotransmitters, the development of trust in each other's arms. You are the attempt to synchronize heartbeats in a very tight spooning position. You paint the image of our energies moving in complex shapes before entering the other, circling inside and maturing, then entering back into the other. The ouroboros of emotion and trust and love.

You're what I see when I close my eyes, and you're what I want to see when I open them. You're the concept of someone I can truly let be. The independent, growing college girl with her whole life adventure ahead of her.

You're the angel on my shoulder which speaks to me words of reason and progress and helps me ignore this rotten goblin on the other shoulder. You're the voice I hear say "I really like them, honestly," when I see tracers in my vision.

You're a lighthouse in my mind. One safe thought, one place I can escape to for safety. But that's not really you, it's just my concept of you and my memories. But sometimes just that thought is enough to fuel it, because I'll be thinking of you more than I actually see you and I need to find the best way to deal with both.

I don't want to put you on some unreasonable pedestal and I don't think I have. I only truly mean like a third of what I said about the poetic "you are"s, because it would be unreasonably romantic to truly believe most of that. But I believe it in spirit and that's what matters.

You're the voice whispering me to sleep, and the reason I don't always have to wear ear plugs any more. You're the person I imagine running their fingers up my arms and into my hair when I watch ASMR vidoes. You trigger my ASMR and almost no one before you has been so successful in doing so. My body responds to you naturally in burst and quivers of euphoria and satisfaction, the curiousity of how you can pleasure and tingle me and how I can please you.

Rubbing your back and shoulders, popping your back ever so slightly, exploring the surface of your skin in every area. I want to learn and map your topography and dimensions and watch those change gradually over time as you mature into this yogi goddess with such a brain it's astounding.

You inspire me. You're such a hard worker and you're so much further than your circumstances could have put you. You're so strong Zo. Even if you feel like you're breaking sometimes, you're handling the pressure better than I ever could.

I'm grateful for my time with you, but I'm even more grateful for the peace you've helped bring to my tumultuous mind.

I hope you're getting just the most wonderful sleep. Dreaming of forgotten kindoms, songs never heard, places and euphorias never felt or synchronized with. You're a good person.
Thanks for putting up with my *******.
You make me feel like I'm in some fantasy sometimes. A story book with fairies and some perfect ending or no ending.
Patricia LeDuc Mar 2018
As I soar around the room
I like it up here
As I fly and fly and fly
I see her down there
Weeping and suffering
Please let me take away her pain
She should be happy not sad.
I go down to let her know I can help
She doesn’t see me she doesn’t care
Is that me I wonder?
As I look down below

I come crashing to the floor
Manic no more
September 7th 2016
amber Mar 2018
my head is pounding.
is it the presence,
of nicotine,
in my bloodstream?
or is it,
that too many thoughts are swirling about?
bashing into one another,
knocking each other out,
creating chaos in the walls of my skull.
Maes Mar 2018
The constant storm that is raging inside my brain
The flames in my head spreading further until I drain
Not enough loudness, not enough wildness
But still wishing for something cloudless
This whirlwind is spinning me around
and finally leaving me dazed on the ground

They see me washed up on shore
But no one seemed to care anymore
The movie of memories started to play
And I realized it was my role
that drove the audience away

So to me, my flames are unkind
But mostly they failed to remind
that in the storm I am blind
To what mess I leave behind
About the destructive nature of manic episodes or mixed episodes in bipolar disorder
Lu Feb 2018
Every day is a different story,
But cycles tend to form.
Cycles, cycles, cycles, cycles, cycles.
Compulsive, depressive, manic, crazy.

It’s like a CD skip- skip- skip- skipping,
But it’s not like she can remember why she was mad in the first place.
Doesn’t recall the fight you yelled at her for,
Can’t seem to forget her love for you though.

Roller coasters are her favorite.
Did you hear me? IRONY AT ITS FINEST.
Up and down and around and around,
Riding and being thrown by the waves over and over.

Thank you for putting up with her swinging,
Back and forth, like two-face.
She can’t control it, she didn’t want to be this way,
But God said she was strong enough...isn’t she?

At least she has good music tastes,
Riding around, the stations changing with her beautiful moods.
Smoke blowing out the windows,
She’s the one the music talks about: Here and Gone without a trace.

Do you think she ever gets tired?
Tired trying to keep up with her day to day phases?
Pha- Pha- Phases like the moon.
Beauty ever changing, but silent. Stuck in her head.

You love her though right?
I mean, think about it.
When it’s a good day, she’s so understanding and chill and all-around perfect.
Those days make every other worth it.

Right?

God bless the cycles, cycles, cy- cy- cycles.
For one whole day she’s uncontrollable.
Asking you a million questions and wanting to hug you for as long and as tight as she can.
Kisses, “I love yous,” excitement, annoyance.

“Can we get a pet octopus?
Oh pretty pretty please?
Can I cut my hair or dye it bright pink?”
“You hate pink” you say, but there she goes again.

Down down down the rabbit hole.
Off again she goes.
Hair flying in the breeze, that perfume you bought her still on your shirt.
Irri- irri- irritate- irritation.

The day very next, not even 24 hours yet,
Tears falling down her face, rivers of black eyeliner.
She doesn’t get out of bed.
“Baby what’s wrong?”

Nothing is ever truly wrong.
It’s like a weight on her chest, suppressing her every move.
A deep, black hole in the pit of her stomach, isn’t that what she said?
Misery at its finest. Almost like she’s already dead.

Why put up with her then?
Why ride this roller coaster?
Why hold her tight when she laughs?
Why hold her tight when she cries?

You see, why would anyone in the first place?

In fact, there’s no perks to dating a bipolar girl.
Not one.
Not at all.
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