#chronicle
I remain an iteration of past mumbles
No future do I yearn to.
I'll tell you about a "Once upon a time"
Instead of the coming blue.
In no present have I remained,
Only in "once" and what if
I sing of the begone days
In the tavern of lost grief
Here I pour wine to newer cups
Which time forgets to brew.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 2:00 PM UTC
Turn the page clockwise,
a full one-eighty degrees.
Any further and you’ll lose perspective.
Any less and you’ll slip back.
That’s not irretrievable,
and you’ll probably
have an opportunity to re-cover.
You might re-live and re-peat,
but if you make it a habit,
you’ll get stuck in a loop
never breaking out of the prologue.
Stick to the clockwise-one-eighty approach
and you’ll myth like a Makar.
You’ll story, fable and yarn.
You’ll chronicle and tale.
You’ll saga.
That is what we call a true page turner.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:48 PM UTC
In the shadows of my serene composure
Perturbance ventured my susceptible core
Corollary hallucinations compelled my inner channels to disarm
Commenced the chaos at the departure of calm
A storming blitz led by a fortifying fleet
Disruptions levitated to the greatest summit
Every portal being forcefully barred
Catastrophic propositions nearly forged my dreary graveyard
Instantaneous reinforcements initiated an expeditious resurgence
Sirens snapped my vulnerable systems back to sense
My efficacious consultant explored miscellaneous alternatives
Warfare and fleeing being the superlative prerogatives
Befittingly, combat seemed extremely gallant
Escape undignifying the prowess of talent
It all panned out en route a thunderous showdown
The ultimate clash being unveiled as the ‘Psychological Crown’
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 10:52 PM UTC
Chronicle these breaths.
And lay them naked
on paper - for the world
to see and judge,
like you know you should.
Dissect them...
With the sharpness
of your scalpel-like thoughts,
like you always would.
Fall in love with them.
Tag them with unspoken words
all too familiar.
Then cast them unto me...
When you finally know you could.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
Gazing into the vast abyss
Said the familiar voice
[You deserve all]
[All the happiness]
Stay blessed
Anyway
Now it's the time
To pray
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
There is no
debacle;
just a set of
uncertain chronicle.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC
If I was ever presented
with the impossible chance
To accurately chronicle
every subtle nuance
Measured against
the number of elapsing days
No ink would be enough
No hand could keep the pace
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
All these years I thought this was a sort of coping mechanism, a sort of way to stop myself from peeling my skin off to try to scream at it to listen. A way to keep me contained.
My words knew better than I.
When I couldn't keep my thoughts straight, my lyrical ramblings were putting away chronicles that would eventually be a bread trail to understand the world inside my head. To understand the little girl locked behind bars and being told she is a Jabberwocky. My little, trapped, fearful, left behind, bipolar girl.
Things seem so much clearer now. I haven't felt so unclouded and intelligent in years, but suddenly the paths in front of me seem so much easier than they used to be. The poisonous fog over my life has lifted and I can see the monster I was stabbing at was truly just me.
I just couldn't see that then.
I have my writing to thank for everything. I have to thank it for everything. It is the one entity in my life that has been constant and loving and keeping me human. Alive, even.
It is the music of my soul, and it amazes me every day how deeply I love it, and it loves me. I wrote an entire piece two years ago about my love for writing and how it has always stayed by me, uncertain of its love for me. Writing loves so many people, and I am just a grain of sand in writing's life. But lately I've been feeling that even a grain of sand can matter so much. I mean, Dickens and King and Miller and Lee were only grains of sand and look how much they did?
It feels stupid and forced of me to get all motivational speech here after the chronicled years of confused sufferings and endless, unsure ramblings. I'm not going to sit here and talk about how I see the light and I know the way suddenly, and my life is fixed.
My life will never be fixed. But in an imperfect world, where nothing every truly is fixed, it seems the wading through the waters is pleasant when you do what works best for you.
What I will say, though, is that my life is finally, after years of uncertainty, one hundred percent my life, just as it should be.
I'm bipolar, it'll always make my life interesting and different than everyone else's. But if I can try to keep my life overall happy and have writing in it and feel strong and loved and brilliant, and I think for once I'll be fine.
Funny that I think this is the first time I promised that in a poem and truly believed it. Not just the moment, not just next week.
I think from now on, I can be fine.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC