The Receptionist's counter is too close to the forever waiting room.
The Nexts are trying their patient penances;
Some seem to read;
Others appear to listen to the television;
There's no dialogue,
Except for the Dr.'s assistant,
And, the Receptionist.
Any conversation would be idle,  and not heard anyway.
They sit on pins, listening for their names.
Super Tuesday held no kryptonite for Super Joe, remarked the talking head.

The Dr. will see you in three years.
I fist pump and spin to leave,
Seeing a blur of corralled, bowed, preoccupied heads.
A frail face lifted up, and smiled for me.
Happy for me.
Truly the best medicine.

Poetry is the only way out
Of a mind drowning in fear and doubt
I write my own freedom
I write my deliverance

I've forgotten how to do damage with a pen
All I remember is how to slash these swords against my skin
Crimson drips from the mutilated canvas and,
suddenly,
it becomes interesting
The candyman promised his stuff was the good kind
Guess he forgot to mention with every high comes a goodbye
I'm a ticking time bomb
And I hear the clock ticking
Tick tick tick
But suddenly every tick becomes a good time when I remember
That the end of every goodbye becomes the chance for a new high

bipolar dreams
you think you know about these things
how they go from right to left so seamlessly
how i go from up and down
and you’ll ever notice the change in the symphony
my instruments plays melancholy and the next a beautiful sunrise victory
some days i can laugh when nothing is in front of me
then another i'm crying until my heart atrophies

they put my on theses meds that made me my feel like my skin was crawling
my eyes appeared dry but i couldn’t stop from bawling
i feel like i have whiplash from a rollercoaster at six flags
its funny because when i'm manic my favorite color is yellow but when i'm sad its the most disgusting thing ive ever seen
i'm stuck living in these bipolar dreams
they say nothing is ever as it seems
but have you looked in the mirror and seen a black void where your brain should be
that your serotonin isn’t mixing with your dopamine

this is how your life is when your neurotransmitters don’t work properly

This wound is different..
This wound isn't the same as the past..
Wounds that are invisible but feel real..
I don't like this pain to be repeated..
A knife that stabbed in the back..
I'm tired with of all this drama..
Different wounds but have the same pain..
Different weapons but injuring the same place..

With all of the kindness, madness, happiness, sadness, rudeness, and every feeling of taste..
The weapons hurt without feeling..
Day by day the pain is still exist..
I don't know what kind of medicine can handle this...

Sour scented citrus,
Sweet, slimy syrup.
That’s me!
Sour lemon,
Sweet honey.

My heart burns and
Emotions rise up
In acidic scent,
Sticky, icky, stingy
Sour lemon sweet honey.

The love stings and sits on cuts.
While honey glazes and gives warm hugs
As it finds a cure in the blood
Wherever it may be
With the right combination of:
Sour lemon and sweet honey.