"cyclothymia" poems
It's no longer a mystery.
This...thing.
This thing that plagues my mind
with the ups and downs,
ups and downs.
and downs.
I've wondered so long,
the root of my insanity.
And now it has a name.
An identity.
They call it..
Cyclothymia.
A mental disease.
And truthfully,
I don't know what to make
of the newfound knowledge.
To be happy,
or to be sad?
It is strange
to think of it as a handicap
when it has become
an integral part of who I am.
And yet, I have wished.
Oh, how I have wished
it away for so long.
No, I am not this disease,
it is just part of me.
But who am I without it?
This thing...
This..
Cyclothymia.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
there was a child whose father
brews rice at dawn
before the eyes of her mother
she frowns and stands like a pawn
her neighbors grumble saying
her lips a peg for pots
but they've seen nothing
what's inside her hearts
at the age of ten she thinks
like a hundred times her age
she burns her brows at nights
while her siblings sleep in their caves
she stands in the dark trails
her childhood can't see or hear
but her heart alone sees
how much she wanted to be free
there's a spring of tears
and a lake of fire
she locks her door
and hides her face inside
cyclothymia runs her blood, they said
but their blind to see
blind to see her in a bottomless pit
almost defied
and her mother only sees
a face with a frown
a frown not the fullness
of her heart with a crown
but her father looks into her eyes
his smiles washed away the frown on her brows
leaving no flecks but a face that radiates
she flows with the rivers and seas
he sees her depths and lifts his pride
his a shelter she trusts her back and her spine
and her face glows in the dark a luminous green
then she finds her way and strength to walk on her path
the child with a frown no longer exists
her mother stands still in wonders
the neighbors and their mouths are shot
as a well grown garden arise
full of flowers bees and butterflies
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 2:15 AM UTC
One day I'll probably stop writing.
The world would run out of things
to write about.
My mind would run out of things
to write about.
And a terrible lull will linger
over my head.
Probably apathy.
Probably cyclothymia.
I'll leave myself out of everything.
I will only listen to the sound around me,
not the sound that's coming from me.
I am awake.
I swear I'm awake.
May 18, 2011
May 18, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
We pause to rest on the hilltops just before
the afternoon gives way to evening
While her young child
crawls innocently across the grass
A tiny cherubic visage silhouetted by the slow flare
of the summer sun enshrining the scene
She tells me
that even with these things
that bring her such intense joy
the darkness would not relent
It was always there taunting her
just beneath the surface
She tells me she wants out of these panicked strain eclipses
tugging cantilever protrusions through heart chambers
The worry of writhing sickness murmuring like scorned blasphemers retreating to cimmerian shade
Incessentally dominating
the pleasant moments of her life
I could not offer any reassurances
other than to say
Perhaps these moments
must interlace
forever woven together by
the passage of time
that we are blessed and doomed
to walk alongside them simultaneously
And that just as light and dark
are separate parts of the same day
Our experiences
are just different expressions
of a magnificent existence
on an unstoppable wheel.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC