Back So Soon?

This is the path I chose,
And here I am undone.
A clown without her clothes
In front of everyone.

Liar Liar Liar,
For closer to the fire,
What seemed like shining wings
Are melting waxen things.

‘As fake as a wedding cake’,
The Manson lyric goes.
I’ll be the slice left on the plate
That no-one ever chose.

Talks a lot
But says nothing.
Takes a lot
But never brings.

No more, no more,
I said before.
Yet here I write,
Poetry whore.

Stir well, until crazy

Two days up,
Two weeks down.
Mixed episode, Mixed episode, lost count.
Three hours up, two down, two up,
Mixed episode again..
Two hours up, two days down..
Etc, etc, etc.
Rapid cycling is not given to record keeping.
Half a day up, 3 weeks down, 4 days up…
Blur. Blur. Blurrrrrrr.
Insanity, Insanity, Insane.

Smile Alice, we’re just getting started.

please stop being bipolar..

Going up or down?
Country mouse or town?
Smile or a frown?
Heartbroken or clown?

You say
Make a decision please,
Indecision brings unease.
You think I like to tease.

You will not contemplate
Angles that aren’t always straight,
You say lie, and lie some more,
Act as I did before.

Be an emotion whore.

whose party is this?

I run into old friends
Who look shiny and new,
They ask me ‘damn, girl,
What’s the matter with you?’

I say ‘It’s done to me,
It’s not something I do,
“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”

It’s my brain, and
Though I really don’t want to,
I’ll go high, (I don’t wanna),
I’ll go low, (I don’t wanna).

Synaptic strain has me feeling so blue.
I’ll go high, (I don’t want to),
I’ll go low, (I don’t want to).

“You would cry too,
If it happened to you.”‘

..pointless rant..

I’m in for a bad night tonight.

I’m both feet first from the bipolar plane without a chute, and I’m pretty sure that I’m about to hit the ground hard.

I can’t pretend to write any more metaphorical poetry right now, can’t find the effort to put it into candy coated rhyming couplets.
Everything I would say is rife with clichés about torn up hearts and souls, and all embroidered with far, far too much wankery.

Anyone who’s been ‘here’ will understand:
Simultaneously flushed hot and cold.
Feeling so empty it’s almost alien, yet full to bursting with wanting to cry, freak out, and panic loudly from the emotional overload, only to find it’s always trapped helplessly inside.
Unable to sleep.
Wired but exhausted, unable to focus.

Wondering if maybe going through this again for one more cycle, one more DAY, is really worth it.

To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m bothering to post this.
The cynic in me says perhaps only 3 or 4 people will ever bother to read it, if I’m lucky.
I wouldn’t say that no one cares, but I can say from experience that no one cares twice.
You can ask continuously for help in a hundred ways in a hundred poems / posts and all you get are a couple of likes.
Right now, I’ve run out of ways to ask, especially when I’m not really sure what it is that I’m asking.

If I’m honest with myself, I suppose I post to affirm that I exist, right?
A thousand unread journals under the bed proves nothing, except perhaps, that it’s a large bed, or that they are rather small journals.

But to post online…’they’ say it’s there forever, in the web somewhere. Something I wrote, existing forever…well, for as long as the current form of the internet exists. Uploaded to The Matrix.
To have one person read it. To connect with it, to like it, or even to hate it entirely, is to create a human reaction to ME.
I EXIST.

Just another drama queen right?

But I get it.
I read similar blogs. As similar as they get anyway.
So many cries for help, disguised as poems, stories, or conversations.
All wandering and winding around the topic.
Feeling it, but not unwrapping it. That gift under the tree that never gets fully revealed.

But what can I do, other than acknowledge, ‘you exist’.?

You exist.

one or the other

You gave me a lengthy look,
And then you took
Heaven away.
But hey, that’s OK.
Then before I knew, I fell,
And you showed me hell,
And that was ok too.

One or the other, I’ll acclimatize.
Learn to balance, to be wise,
But only one.
Only one.
I never know, if I’ll stay or when I’ll go.

It’s dizzying,
Tied to this piece of string
Of a child,
Whose temperament goes wild.
Unable to control
Their yoyo.
My life.
My yoyo. So,
I never know, when I’ll stay or if I’ll go
Up or Down.

And bouncing in between,
Never finding my feet,
Is a sickening carnival ride
That’s strangely incomplete.
Unbalanced inside.

To have one or the other,
Or sometimes both, confusing,
Too much emotional bruising.
The reverse of a junkie
Wanting their next fix.
Not me, no, no, not me,
I don’t want, I don’t want,
I don’t want it.

What if I find that I just can’t take,
I can’t stand any more and I finally break?
My mind to my Wonderland then take,
Put a ‘vacancy’ sign on my forehead,
Sit by the marshmallow lake.

Well we always knew I was crazy,
It was never a question of maybe.
Now all they ever ask of me:
“At this very moment, what is she?”

Alice Insane

Oh no, is Alice insane?
Has she gone off,
Had any,
Or taken too many,
Of her massive number of tablets again?

Look at them lovingly lined up in rows,
So many highs and so many lows,
Looking like Skittles,
No taste of rainbows.

What was that thing that she said?
There’s too much space inside of her head
Filled up with noisy silence?
With too much peaceful violence?

It’s so tiring, trying, falling, failing,
Draining to seem normal now.
They say ‘don’t try to be normal then’.
But if now is then, then where and when
Should I cease to cease being social again?

Don’t compare me.
I only compare myself,
Not to looks or wealth,
But to how many dues you have to pay
Just to live through every day.

bipolar stairs

Alice sat weeping,
Staircase contemplated.
Compelled to climb.
Emotions complicated, and
Not nearly enough cake.

Now was bleeding.
Skin from hands and knees amiss,
For every single day
She was forced to do this:
Climb the winding stair.

Upwardly optimistic,
Scaling heights oft tall,
Stairs constantly collapsing,
And down, down she’d fall,
In a violent, painful tumble.

Always the choice to remake:
Lie in a heap forever and ever,
Or clamber to her feet
To repeat the endeavour.
After a lifetime, she stood.