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MillionairesAaron walks past as they're taking my
blood pressure and my pulse.
"If you go over 100 you win a prize"
and the nurse laughs too.
Bipolar cells, Bipolar diseaseWe all have bipolar neurons -
brain cells with two processes.
Bipolar neurons process light
Some of us have bipolar disorder
where our moods chemically switch into two severe states
into mania and depression.
Sometimes we're fighting darkness
some days we're drowning in light
both are dangerous
both are debilitating
both can kill us
But we are all human.
We all have bipolar neurons and they keep us alive.
Some of us have bipolar disorder, which can lead us to suicide.
So next time you insult me for being bipolar,
remember that at a cellular level, your brain is bipolar too.
The difference is that my brain is cellularly bipolar
but it is chemically and structurally bipolar too.
Bipolar disorder needs your understanding
not your judgment.
This is a disease that brings us to our knees
this is a disease that can destroy families and lives.
This is a chemical reality that feels like a waking nightmare,
like trying to breathe inside antimatter and black holes
or feeling that euphoria, feelin
HealingI felt her breathe
across my skin
in gentle undertones.
She pressed her
against a hollow soul
into damaged wrists
and fragile bones.
With a kiss,
she shaped my body
beneath quiet, loving hands
with soft words in whisper
she tells me
she'll never understand.
Hospital Collection: Saving JI dream that Jeremy
tastes the soft barrels of a gun
and the sweet white powder
melts like ink
on the surface of his tongue.
He gives me a gentle smile
as the blood pools
from the soft inside of his skull
and I scream and wake
dialling the number of the hospital
before I realise that I'm too
I'm not there anymore.
Stories From the Psych Ward (2 of 3)I'm so cold I feel it down to the bones,
sitting in the dining hall trembling
over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas
tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold.
Patients huddle together outside to talk,
but I'm forbidden to join them,
trapped inside the ward on a category four.
They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one.
Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas,
looking tired and worn down,
lips twisting into smiles as the smoke
curls down into their lungs.
Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard.
They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and
the shadows disappear, give me blankets
to stay warm, until they take me by the hand and lead me out.
Two psychiatrists come to speak with me
While insects pour from my lips
And satellites speak of the death of stars
The voices scream at me
But I talk.
They want me to trust them
They want me to stay alive.
A nurse takes six canisters of my blood,
a deep frothy red. It pours out of my
Reading PoetryI swallow distorted words
laughing as they reverberate in my throat
and slide down my esophogus
into the deep void of my soul.
Every sentence tastes powder-soft
like eating snow and sugar crystals
with the acidic bite of love-lost poems
and a forgotten muse.
We drink a white-wine spritzer
of verbs and ellipses
with a brandy twist of sorrow
and a tongue print of lemon
to counteract the pain.
I ask you for an absinthe kiss
and you press cigarette-stained thoughts
into my mouth
as the shadow-words burrow into our bones
searching for the truth.
I write villanelles onto your hips
and you slide into my wrists with ink pen scars.
We trip into paragraphs
as I drown in pretty verses
laughing as the names write bruises on your heart.
The Bus Stop DialoguesI.
A young man at the bus stop
turns to me and softly asks
"Why aren't you wearing shoes?"
He taps the faded leather
of his suedo-skin
and his eyes smile in a gentle lilt
before his mouth does.
I tell him that I like
to feel the earth breathe.
That textures keep my mind alive
and ticking like a clock.
I tell him that I'm trying to grow roots
so my pale limbs can twist into a tree
(the way L and I talked about it in therapy).
I tell him that my soul is lonely
and the ground is the only thing that's always there.
I tell him that bare skin is sensitive
and stroking it with every (twelfth) step
is a soothing form of self-care.
I tell him that I walk on water
and if I had shoes; I'd drown.
I tell him that my soles bruise
until they match my soul.
I tell him that my bones are soft
and the soil sews them back into reality
when I'm losing grip on sanity.
I tell him that I'm praying
one day I'll step on a syringe.
I shrug my shoulders,
open my mouth and say
"I just didn't feel like weari
MichaelMichael tells me his name this morning.
He's forgotten who I am.
Shock therapy short-circuits his mind
and his memory slides under the doorways,
waiting to drip back into his skull.
SalvationsI woke with a barcode tattooed into my wrist, over a scar.
nurses conspired in soft tones
tracing the sound of schizophrenia into an injection needle
to hush the patient in the bed next to mine.
their voices echo in my bones.
I stopped breathing in your hands
and you lifted me like
a drop of snow, to drink.
whispering intraveneously into my lungs
I breathe light
and swallow myself whole.
black holes moved under your skin,
and your limbs felt soft, diseased.
and we prayed for release.
we searched for wings in the corners of wards
breathing prayers into our hands,
pressing them between the outside floorboards
and writing the gospel secrets of the damned
I am, I am
I am mad
we were the sick they laid down in marketplaces
to touch the holy hem of silk, to be blessed by solemn hearts
our fingers missed and felt god depart
we touched the air.
lips seeking reverence in the place of saints and
we spoke hymns into the space
and touched th
Bound and nailed
Bound as I cannot escape...
Nailed in the knowledge
Because what I know...
Yet its beyond me to act
Its not within my Powers
I can only be patient and wait...
But I can live and let live
I'll be damned if I'm sitting
For this to restrain me further...
I am who I am
You are not gonna get me
I'm not going without a Fight...
You can stick your ugly Head out
Reaching for me
But I ain't listening...
your truth.i've memorized the map of the world on your skin, the crevices and caverns and shallow valleys, the porcelain cracks and blackening alleys and maybe i'm just scarred from the thousand times i've shattered, but i feel the need to tell you that you matter.
and i wish i could show you that you're so much more than light and darkness and spaces in between, all the times you've ached and all the pain you've seen.
and i wish i could show you that faith and love are what it means to be alive, but you just can't seem to open your eyes and now i'm praying someday you'll fall in time with someone who can change your mind.
darling, please, don't let life be an array of color you refuse to see.
Story in shortI am a daughter
To a father who is a pedophile and a mother who didn't protect me
I am a sister
To six siblings, five sisters and one brother
I am a mother
To my little boy, who is my reason to keep on living
I come from physical abuse
Years by the hands of a step father who hated me, and a mother who just watched from the distance
I come from mental and emotional abuse
Loved one second, hated another, and told over and over again how bad, worthless, and unneeded I am
I come from sexual abuse
Scary nights learning things I shouldn't of learned so young , no one believing me till the FBI came
I locked away the pain
And started cutting
I stopped smiling
And learned to fake my way though life
I am not my father, I am not my mother
But my biggest fear is that deep down I am
I wished for death and attempted so many times
To Write LoveShe does it,
She doesn't want to.
She feels like she needs to.
Its compulsive, addictive.
Just another part of the day.
But its not. It shouldn't be.
Oh, look what she's done.
The skin is marred,
See those purple marks?
All the way up to the elbow.
How far will this go?
Don't you know,
Its really a cry.
All she wants is help.
All she wants
Is for someone
To reach out to her.
To ask her if she is okay.
Are you okay?
She's not okay.
She is slowly dying.
In the dark corners of her bedroom,
She is quietly crying.
Shh.. it'll be okay
Is anyone listening?
Can't anyone see?
Although not with her lips.
It is silent.
She is pleading.
She doesn't want
To slowly waste away
She wants you to take her
Into the circle of your comforting arms,
And use them in turn
To Write Love On Her Arms.
SacrificeLying on the bathroom floor wasn't a life she wanted to live. She didn't want to be soaking in a puddle of blood, with nothing but the cold linoleum floor to stop her from falling into the pits of Hell. The lines of Life and Death slowly became blurred to her, and fantasy soon melded with reality.
And the only thing to make the world snap back in place? Her razor. She loved the feeling of the cold metal ripping open her skin, letting the blood drip like the tears from her eyes. Except now, her eyes were dry. What she didn't know, was that she was only making it worse. For in a few hours, she'd look at the fresh cuts on her hips, and fill with self despise. And then the cycle would start again, just as vicious as before.
She was always hiding, always sneaking. Afraid to leave her bag unattended, in case someone were to look inside the pocket that contained her Savior. She was terrified that somehow, someone would find out, and then her entire life would turn even more into Hell (as if t
It was always me...I have a peculiar, weird way of seeing the world
From since I can remember
For me there are no shades of grey
Everything is black, foggy
Some people say I'm pessimistic
That I should see the brighter side of life
(what bright side?)
The doctors say is not me
It's the "illness" I have that clouds my perception
But I know is not
They don't seem to realize
It has always been me, all along
written in august 31, 2010
the Wild AnimalsThose things who only have to fight for existence
or maybe a place to sleep.
I'm not a thing but I can die.
I'm not a man but I have a soul.
I can't see what they see.
I can't feel what they feel.
I'll ever need;
the perfect womanno one
loves a woman like you.
pale. virginal. frail.
shaking as you apply lipstick that seems your lips
invisible. The perfume bottles have crystal toppers that whisper
your dappled reflection across the mirror, string the
salty taste of your wrists over echoes.
The white lace of your neckline froths up, white and pure,
yet the dark undertow is surely there, and you can
see it is
You can't hear me come into your room, but
can smell blood under the skin, either.
you'd be a pretty woman if you weren't so afraid of it.
So afraid of your own pale smile, so afraid of the thin
curves that, at the age of nineteen, could barely break you
out of childhood.
My lighter clicks, holds a flame, then goes out,
stealing a moment of your careful breathing.
Even the silenc
FearClay and Michael are given anaesthetic for their shock treatment.
We sit together in the lounge, and Michael asks him why
he's not wearing the blue hospital robes.
"The shock shop won't let you in without them."
Clay points at him and screams so loudly we all shake.
"I need to lie down," he whispers,
and the nurses surround him
and gently lead him away.
He's so quiet and sweet on the ward,
but for a single moment, he's terrifying.
Michael is upset, and I try to tell him that Clay's unwell,
that we're all unwell.
He was hearing voices this morning,
and staring into nothing.
And I hope he's okay,
that he'll be okay.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More