"corralled" poems
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
the committee
has convened
(kangaroos corralled)
the agenda
is set
(scapegoats framed)
the politicos
are preened
(perfect patriots)
hair coiffed
teeth whitened
(fangs sharpened)
correct talking
points bulleted
(minds closed)
puffed chests
perfectly postured
(bombastic bravado)
freedom fighters
stand firm
(Constitution usurpers)
American flag
lapel pins
(sparkling bright)
liberty's spirit
and tolerance
(roundly condemned)
special interests
are watching
(payola earned)
partisan lines
clearly drawn
(democracy doomed)
Music Selection
Cream: Politician
Oakland
10/1/10
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
In my home city of Dhaka, there is an abundance of bananas. Their sickly sweet aroma hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the stench of human toil and chemical wastes to produce the true odor of despair. The lives of these bananas are relatively short. They start off in a poor farmer’s tree, dragged to market in a broken-down truck, and sold at a cut-throat price to the vendor. In a well-rehearsed play, vendor and consumer haggle over bruised bananas. The tired consumer brings the bananas home and hangs them in the kitchen where cockroaches stalk empty cupboards.
The next day, we, the children, will carry the bananas in empty lunch boxes to school. Together, we will sit through vapid lectures, tailored to make the clock tick slower. Not once will the teacher pause to encourage us to achieve. During lunch, we will devour our bananas with unwashed hands. Despite our best efforts, we will be corralled into our parents’ lives and become the next generation of factory workers and office clerks.
Sometimes though, a child manages to get a glimpse into the other world. I was fortunate enough to be one of these children. One afternoon, my father came into our tiny living room with a smile on his face and an object protruding from his shirt pocket. He told me that he had a special present for me. With a practiced flourish, he took out an orange from his worn shirt. My eyes widened with amazement.
To me, oranges were objects only celebrities and corrupt politicians could afford. They were luxury items, myths seen on television. Yet here I was, nothing extraordinary, holding a real orange in my palm. Slowly I peeled the orange, feeling my old impoverished self peel away simultaneously. As I tasted the first tangy slice, I heard the shackles of the banana chain fall. It was then that I truly felt that I had the power to become anything I wanted. That day, I was liberated from the vicious banana cycle.
From that day forward, I looked for positive events in my life, for signs of hope and change. One day, I saw my strict, condescending teacher discreetly hand an orange to a classmate whose family was unemployed. For the rest of the day, the child stood a little taller. For that day, he was no longer living in a destitute environment, but residing in the warmth of human nature.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
History's greatest artists would fail to do your frame justice. Their fingers would fumble clumsily, brushes and pens flustered by the impossible request of copying a face which would shame Aphrodite into seclusion.
Those with mastery of the worlds languages couldn't hope to come close to capturing the magnificence and depth of a soul that burns brighter than our sun, papers crumpled in frustration from futile attempts at capturing a shooting star in a mason jar.
Virtuosic musicians can't comprehend melodies which could equal your soothing atmosphere or complex structure. Theorists would spend eons attempting to find an ordering of notes which could sing harmonies fitting the one that pours from your eyes, each one being broken by the realization that no such string exists, that they have attempted to match the glory of a choir of angels, and that God has found them unworthy.
Reality is ripping at the seams in its vain efforts to make room for an immaculate Phoenix which can not be tamed, corralled, or controlled by a physical world, not when its immortal splendor transcends description or dimension. Moments feel like eternity when blessed with the presence of one who's life illuminates nights which previously contained impenetrable darkness, thick as ink and as all consuming as the fires which now burn so brilliantly and with such calming warmth.
A priceless work of art, surpassing the limits of what can perceived with eyes or ears, and must be experienced by the heart, felt by the soul, and loved by the whole of my being. A greater masterpiece has never been born, and can never be duplicated, for she is the universes greatest achievement, and only a fool could think to improve upon perfection.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Here is life and love, pain and pleasure,
Ten years traversing those steps,
Tired waitress, twelve hours hell,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Too-jolly Australians on a budget,
Eating soup and dessert, are missing,
The pasta, the best part, it seems,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Miscreant male constantly corralled,
By his Austrian authoritarian aunt,
Filling her face with a pasta mountain,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
New lovers lost in each other’s eyes,
Carpaccio di salmon slices sharp cold,
Their Gaja Barbaresco lust blood red,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Old lovers holding hands in silence,
Pasta warm feelings of Taglioni Fratelli,
This Chianti Classico two will soon be one,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Married couple, on different planes,
Broadcast to their neighbours the plans,
Of loveless friends in lifelong *******
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s.
Meal memories of two and more,
Of friends and family, work and play,
Life and love and unforgettable moments,
I am facing the door in Fratelli’s
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Maybe water runs uphill
From the ocean's bursting treasures
Of salts, silts, sands
Marshalling at the estuaries
Spawning rivers, as pioneers
Oozing into coastal plains
A brackish caravan rolling
Inland to new-found-land
Beyond the rule and will
Of the tide's spill where
Drought and dry spells
Sweep like wraiths
******** on thieving winds
Throwing heartless dusty curses
Picking off stragglers
In slacks and backwaters
Or caravanned through known channels
Paying taxes to the thick-rooted soil
For passage upstream
Past thirsting leaf and bough
Every mile hard-won
Til the watershed haven
Of bog and lochan
Corralled safely among peaks
There to farm the cloud and mist
And to see blossom, in good years
A deep harvest
Of cold, clean snow
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 11:29 AM UTC
Across town, there’s no across. It’s just the town.
The dogs being fed by master, master toys,
Makes dogs bend, cower, quiver, then shoots dog
Out of the bow. Dog gnaws air through gritted fangs,
Finalizes his stupidity, gives up on his own self-confidence,
And lets it roar with a hand up his ***
The pigeons coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly,
Coo, cluck, **** fly.
Foxes run around the yard chasing tails,
Motives based in circles,
Saving slowing down and puking for death
as they Yap like pups.
Master watches from a high gallery
of Windexed windows so clean,
That you can see master’s muscles tightening as master laughs.
happiness and darkness.
Cars, trains, automobiles,
Flying machines, high ideas, fulfillment,
Continuation, carbon and all things irrelevant,
Master loves you.
In town, Pop tells the kids he’s on his way,
Mama shatters into a million brilliant pieces,
And Grandad’s sigh comes out his mouth with the care of a habit.
The kids are corralled into the basement to play,
mess with each others genitals, and put on azalea dresses
And heavy suits with black ties.
With all the venom of moths
They let their little mouths flutter in the dark,
as Mama and Poppa hurl everything they can.
Master gets drunk on equilibrium,
High on acid, perks, dipped bud,
Brushes teeth with alcohol
And spits out his/her teeth in the morning.
Way after the dogs were put to bed to tuck their tails in their legs,
The foxes following suit, the pigeons in the middle of the mess, somewhere.
Mom, Pop, Kids, Grandad, finished talking in low voices around 11:16 pm.
As they shredded the charade, ashamed at all its pieces,
Their mouths watered; I have no hope.
Across town, it’s not a town,
It’s a random house.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
It's the smell. The smell of hundred-year-old
hardwood floors in this old school I recognize most,
floors grown thick and corpulent with untold layers
of pine-scented oil - floors darkened, smoothed
by the trample of children herded, then corralled
in dank stables down those long corridors. I also
remember the confinement I felt, pinned within
those stables, wanting nothing more than to run free,
with the wind of youth combing my untamed hair.
–
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
How do you tell a 19 year old boy that he is in Love?
More importantly, how does he tell himself?
At this point in life, that admonition is more life self-incrimination,
Than the natural steps for a smitten heart.
For so long the lone wold has roamed the range,
And now that one has been found that feels the same,
The instinct to go run and hide away
Must be corralled and eliminated from the brain,
With proper manners, class, and tact instilled in its place.
Though he feels so strongly, and always sees her face,
And with thoughts of her never far from reach
- Hovering on the edge of consciousness for easy access -
The ripping sound is his being being torn apart, heart and mind at odds with each other.
This self-perpetuating war in those maturing from boys into men,
These internal struggles time and again testing their carriers' mental fortitude.
Eventually will he just give up?
Or does he tend to fold and give in to the strain?
Could he possibly soldier on, keeping shredded thoughts to himself?
I sure would like to get a hint if you know,
T'would save me a lot of trouble, time, pain, and sorrow.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 12:28 AM UTC
we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.
as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.
caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.
demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.
caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.
as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?
collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.
there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.
a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.
there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.
we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.
all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.
overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
Determined to have left by half-eight,
cats fed and plates away,
they were late.
This raconteur of the recce,
part time life model to Rosetti (among others)
had corralled cagoules onto arms,
thrown shoes their way, warmed up the car,
had marched across driveways, crossings, marshlands to playgrounds
and so far had lost none.
This was him without coffee, a fifth of his repertoire,
and they weren’t even his sons.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
You are an unbridled stallion
Disjointed
Incoherent
And wild
Break me
She wailed
Domesticate me
Make me inane
A simpleton
Godless
A No one in a vast of people
I
A sun soaked cowboy
Did her biding
Hunted in her prairie
Lassoed her
And corralled the insatiable spirit
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
"New York's charm is that you're surrounded by things you can't have"
then you
I meet an identity not of this world the term foreign sort after by many
a 1st world problem
No
"New York's charm is it makes you think you can have them"
Well well New York, an exotic creature I can't tame in disbelieve that you say your presence is illegal
not to be corralled
not to be labeled.
A 3rd world entity at least our verbs the same
but our actions?
explain
am I just another charm on your arm,
Or bracelet
brace yourself: New York
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Fishbowl paradise
Ferris wheel routine
Plunging serendipity
Spirial anxiety
Suppressed screams
Mousetrap tongue
Sediment will
Onerous today
Dormant daydream
Intended aspirations
Disdain's reflection
Deliberation's causality
Capsized direction
Prevailing interpretation
Unyielding hope
Lost in translation melody
Vanquished negativity
Corralled worth
Starry eye glare
Deja vu reality
Steady stream pace
Rushed
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
a lynch-man
in the Tennessee hills
had run out of hanging thrills
so he decided
to travel
a few hundred miles
crossing the border
into Arkansas
with his new hemp ropes
at the ready
he sized up
the governor's and his spouse's
necks
saying nonchalantly to himself
what the heck
then over the highest branch
he flung the noosing strings
and corralled
the wicked corrupt two
into an inescapable pen
round their napes
he placed
the stricture of the knots
which he'd pulled
very tight
and said farewell
saying to them
hang on
I'll be back later
to see how you're both fairing
on his slow return
Bill and Hillary
were silently gagged
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 7:44 PM UTC
By the light of the Dark, and the gloom of the Moon
As we dance out in our sparkling silver suits
The wind whips our backs and our hooves grind the sand
As we crash with thunder upon many distant lands
We whirl and we chase, flicking droplets to your face
Avid and harsh, we would strike out at you with avarice
And yet… some days not nights, we are full of remorse
On our backs you will ride, full of fun and naivety
But those that will stray will be eaten, and never often found
And then people will say we are cruel
Are we hurt, no not us, we dance and whirl never caring
But some men say that they love us and have a bond
So under the light of the Sun we are corralled and yielding
Until weather and moon make us restless and daring
Then we come to rip down their walls and ruin their games
And forever we will wage war upon their defences
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
Eve convinced Adam
to eat forbidden fruit
in the Garden of Eden
Helen of Troy's face
launch'd a thousand ships,
her lips instigating warfare
Sumptuous curvatures of
women's hips and bossom
lure honorable men to disgrace
How dare that trollop
where a pair of trousers
accentuating her buttocks!
The micro-hemline
corralled a wandering eye
to the elegant calve muscle
The female figure is
warmth and seduction,
yet devilish and misleading
History and myth
reaffirming sweet satisfaction,
but reeking of disaster
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Corralled at the ceiling,
a garden of flowers
tied with delicate, colorful stems.
Helium petals bob softly above and
I pluck a blue stem of my own.
At home, out of sight
my small clumsy fingers
knot the blue string proudly around my neck,
like a trophy. I giggle with delight -
the orb floats just above me,
a faithful bird, a pet.
Then, down the hall come the quickness and shuffles
of house-shoed feet feeling possible threats.
Mother’s face blossoms red, breaks open
exposing her white bear teeth.
Her green eyes **** and twitch.
A black ballpoint pen meets my flower, and slowly
it wilts, crinkles, shrinks
beneath her feminine fists.
The severed blue stem bleeds nothing but silence
and momma's eyes bleed tears
of what?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
As once you saw the man
an illusion of what does stand today.
You cannot fight the tide it will take you away no matter your efforts,
as easily as it did I.
The tide is not there for you to fight
It is in it's nature to devour you whole
What you are missing is your anchor
That very small part of your soul
That piece of you inside the storm
That whispers in the night
I know you are drifting away from me
but I'm strong enough to fight
I'll fight the tide to keep you here
Just bobbing along the shore
I'll fight against the tides of might
So you don't fight no more
I once saw a horse run free
along a lonely stretch of beach
It's hooves continually flicked free
the waters that corralled it's feet
Many sunsets and storms cast dunes
broke are the barriers now
none stand ever so true .
We are all alone from where we view the horses running along the shore.
All this beauty that runs, we are no longer part of this picturesque scene anymore.
I can't bear these thoughts
the pain is too soon
the soul dreams seem an illusion.
We ran till that point from which we began
We became a blur and everything in between.
Much like us, everything
just fell in between the cracks of life and regret, I have tasted it's wine bitter sorrows to be broken in every sense.
All those horses see the truths we so easily mask to ourselves.
Trampled like innocent hearts under hooves.
The foot prints are simply a reminder, running off into that endless sunset .
I know this speaks of goodbye.
And I wish only to be blind to it all
As in love I was once as free as the horses
who in my minds eternal thought
run as freely now as your heart is
Erasing me as the ocean does the imprint left behind.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
Run like the wind
enjoy the freedom
while you can
cars are faster
and one day
you will be corralled
neigh you may say
but tis true I reply.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
And when your days are short and your nights are long, you realize your faults and everything you've done wrong. You cower in fear at your own selfish demise, as you stare into the mirror at your bloodshot eyes. Stricken with the pain of all that you’ve lost, as you share a bed with agony regardless of cost. Regardless of all those you have left in your wake, for momentary pleasure and sanities sake. And now all that you’ve gained has become all that you’ve lost, as the lines you have draw begin to be crossed. Begin to be erased so that the world can make sense, of a society of people corralled by their fence. All different shades of shame and insecurity, with a height only determined by their childish maturity. But you scale all these fences and let yourself in, hoping for comradely or a moment of sin. Anything to give meaning to your everlasting nights, and your constant stream of tears that you continue to fight. Night after night and day after day, insanity taking control in the worst possible way. Losing your grip on realities small weak hand, darkness taking over the lonely place you stand. All has been lost in this uncertain world, as you embrace the cold porcelain where you had just hurled. Another night of regret to make up for the pain, that never seems to end as its pumped through your worthless veins. Time to sleep away the day in the hopes of worthwhile dream, that can take me away from reality and a world that makes me scream.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
when you are waiting
as passive as the glass you drink from
calcined, corralled
into your adequate shape
stand,
skin of your temples limned
by fluorescent,
until your legs ache
and while you are waiting
biding your time until they lift their heads
every disparate form you've taken
sends off their own light
a wild sunbeam toward each coast
broad, bolder-boned
your spine the rock entrenched here, there, wherever
those loafers become one with the floor
melt into it, you
the offshoot of spit
from a rallying cry;
the last good drop of Pentecost
pooling into the terrazzo
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
I struggled in the past
To write a respectable rhyme
More I create the harder it gets
Have to put in increasing time
But this is the first time in months
By far the most in years
Inspired I have felt
It's all thanks to my tears
Bad news is I'm crying
That means more pain
Root of excellence isn't sunshine
For me it's pouring rain
Meaning hidden in the suffering
Can't feel good 100% of the time
Otherwise things wouldn't feel good at all
Without other to compare it to
Is no difference between short and tall
I express better in shades of sorrow
Than I do in colorful rainbows and bliss
Negative emotions waiting in my soul
I try to verse happiness
Doesn't come out sounding truly authentic
That's because it's forced
Words meant to gallop freely
Not corralled
Coerced
I suffer writers block in moments of peace
In a way I'm grateful we are apart
Won't lie and say I'm not bothered by it
At least the result is some beautiful art
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
I'm trying.
Things are complicated and I have no medication nor therapy, but I'm trying.
The endless dial tones and hold music are my trickles of hope now, as I beg, I pray to the Gods I do not know that this call will be the one, this one will get me help. But each one ends with an empty "I'll call you back" and a tearful acknowledgement that they probably won't.
I want to be tolerable, I want to find myself. I am alive and I am breathing but my soul is drowning and gasping for air, suffocating under the tremendous pressure and the weight of the world.
My sanity is slipping, and the impulses are getting stronger. Its getting harder and harder to hold my marbles in my hands when my fingers are broken. I twitch and squirm and fell all my nerves ache for madness, and my rigorous order is struggling to keep my thoughts corralled.
I stare now at my empty hands and just wish to make it through the month. I don't fear dying, no, I fear ruining all the good things I have built up in the past year. I do not want to lose it. I cannot lose it.
First I wanted understanding, then control. But now, with understanding in my heart and control out of the question, all I want is to stay. I want wake up from this foggy dream of insanity and see the one I love lying beside me and a novel on my fingertips, instead of alone and numb because I pushed all that mattered away. I don't want to lose my memory of all the beauty I fell in love with in the past year. I found it and caught it and now that it has stayed I never want it to leave. I will not push it away. I cannot push it away. Not again.
They held my hand while I was crippled and alone, while the emotions were so strong I couldn't see straight, while all the people I loved faded into my memory. I don't want them to fade too. Never. I want my memory intact, I want to keep them for as long as I can.
Bipolar will always hold control over me, and I cannot control it. I realize that. But I want it to be manageable, I want to be a person, I want to feel real and together and I want to stay. I always was afraid of everyone else leaving, but then why was I the one running?
Thing are hard and they are complicated and its all pain and its all happiness. Things never will be easy, but as long as I can stay intact I can accept that. I just cannot lose me, not again, never again.
Bipolar may be here to stay, but I am too.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC