I'm hyper and happy with energy to spare Fast speech, racing mind I spread love everywhere A giant smile is all I bare until a certain darkness fills the air
You feel rampant with no good rage Trapped in your sorrows like a rusted shut cage You remind yourself you're not crazy Sometimes you're really happy or just tired and lazy
Sometimes you lose feeling in your fingers and toes Like you're in the basement of a coroner raw and exposed Other times, you're on a hamster wheel sweating and racing Feeling your skin turn rubber and chafing
I have no control over my emotions and mood And, yes, I know that that's no excuse I come off strong with my opinions and personality Which many think is wonderful or an abnormality
I'm seen in different lights because I don't know which one to stand in I'm only myself in my writing and that's the happiest I've been
Pen and paper give me the control my chemical imbalance never has I can feel calm and genuine and less of a spazz
I'm slowly accepting my past mistakes and reality Mental illness is stigmatized But we need to face our morality
****! Carrie Fisher was bipolar though we didn't talk about it in that era If she was bipolar then I'm just like Princess Leia
It's like we're these two predestined stars Bound to clash into one unfortunate, Yet bedazzling starburst Yes, it's destructive, but seeing it from afar It's one of the most remarkable collisions of a lifetime OUR LIFETIME...
What kinda flowers would you like to have? besides my own tulips, I have I honestly don't know much about the garden or the seeds I know not every day is greeted by dandy lions Or as fertilized in the fruits of its daily labor No one owes your favor We're all petal pushers Waiting to blossom from the buzzin' Not everyone has the will to stem tall Some may wilt away; Some may brighten the day But, I just want to floret And never look back Dancing on the breeze like a leaf Forgetting the roots What a relief
Mister always told me he liked my dress like it was my sunday best and I sat before the god of my inane thirst as he rowed me across the atlantic in romantic suicide. I laid with two stakes in my hands for eight years hung up on the cross of my Father’s back where he carried me to the center of my own christening, and the gathering’s gathered eyes hallowed “I swear he’s a good man”. I had to dig a hundred graves to bury the parts of me that died with you and your fascist grin, I had to burn the home that housed your greasy robes and from the smoke those memories rose unforgiving and sordid where it was my throat that choked instead. How do you figure what stays and what goes in order to live?