Floods raze,
earthquakes shake,
locusts plague,
lost sheep astray,
and my stomach
is a knotted pit of snakes.

My pain cascades in waves
while you pray
to the angels
and patronizing saints;
it's not God's grace
testing faith
but a mind erased
as brain deteriorates.

It isn't fate
but a baby languishing,
afraid of danger,
drained,
trauma ingrained
so I must vacate
because mom
I can no longer bear the weight
of being brave
and maybe I can't be saved
but I can't stand
to see you in this state
and I can't stay
so please just remember
all the love I gave-
I love you always
and I'll take that straight
to my grave-
I never placed the blame,
I'm just exsanguinated
and i bet you'll never even realize
today is my birthday
so i guess I'll see you
at the pearly gates-
please don't wait.

Schizoaffective bipolar type is hell’s disorder.
It is a whirlwind of the curious mind.
A fusion of emotions, brick by boring brick.
Thoughts askew and twisted like twigs.  

Mania, depression, and psychosis sleep together.
Producing a break out of pandemonium.
Exulting energy, dejection, and voices taunt.
A battle within that seems to haunt.

Medication and therapy, tools of aid.
Will tackle hell’s disorder and put it in Pandora's box.
Be wary and do not open it no matter what.
Or the symptoms will crawl over every inch of your skin.

Put the pain in the past because you can still live your life.
You can work a 9 to 5, go on hikes, travel, and ride a bike.
What is something you look forward to? They always ask.
I sigh and answer: freedom.

I can't stand myself. I'm scared that if I let myself think, I'll spiral so far down that I'll never come back up for air. I don't want to be crazy. I don't. I don't want visions from God. I don't want to see the cameras, check the locked door six more times, shake when the tires veer too close to the curb. I don't want to scream every time I see my reflection blink. I don't want to see my reflection blink. How do I convince myself that I still have time to build a life worth living when I lose myself every day in my delusions? Will I one day stop returning to reality? Will I still have time to build a life worth living if I don't? Do I live in the rot, let it consume me and wait to forget, or do I make something of myself, just to lose it the next time I have an episode? I lose hours talking to myself. I lose myself in the hours in between. And I'm terrified to lose everything. I religiously keep receipts and old packaging, mementos of every average Tuesday evening, because what if what if what if? What if I reach thirty and do not remember being twenty two? What if this is all I have to remember that I had a life before I lost it? What if I don't reach thirty and this collection of memories is the only thing left of me? Does a person's potential die when their mind begins to lie, or when they begin to believe it? I don't know if I have psychotic episodes anymore. It's more like episodes of lucidity to break up my average day of hiding from the NSA or my landlord or my neighbor or the ghosts or the devil or God or my mother or myself. Will I ever be a real person? If I build a life worth living, will I have my mind long enough to settle into it? I look to the future and there's a fog I can't quite see through. I'm afraid when I get there, that the past will look the same.

Running from my self
Circling around in Hell
Chased by “demons”
Perhaps my imagination conjured up
Some grim reapers and a flowery, thorn-filled trellis
That was a gateway into another world
I was running towards you in the darkness
No shoes in the snow, I was so cold and numb
Chasing a light that I could barely see
Terrified by what I was hearing
I was alone on a Michigan street
Some thought I was a *******
Waiting to be picked up
A victim of a bad time
But I just wanted to go home
I got into some guy’s car
Luckily a good-hearted soul
A God-send he let me in
Warmed my feet and let me go
Home

This is not a flying cold
this is doing the usual things
in a tilted world

crawling on sore knees
over the sharp rings in the metal
of a fallen spiral staircase

Keep going, keep going, take a rest
in a corner of the turn
till fear loves me again

till my ears go again
with what I see and feel
in the storm of my thoughts

till my intestines fall in place
in the witches' cauldron
and my emotions come home

from suffering
from the lesser evil
to everyone who loves me