On My Own

I’ve written two poems on my personal blog, you can find them here and here. I used to write a LOT of (terrible) poetry back in middle school/high school days. It was a way of venting and basically shouting to the world “I HAVE DEPRESSION” but I hid them in my notebooks, never to see the light of day. I read a little of my old high school poetry and it sparked me back into writing. I’m a little rusty, but here’s the third poem I created recently.

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My Happily Ever After…

“You can’t get to ‘happily ever after’ without turning the page.” ~unknown

Once upon a time…

I wonder how many more me’s there are of me to be.

How many more times can I fully transform to live my life again,

to live a life worth living, and to make myself become worthy of the me there is to be?

The last me was hatched and broken.

Now I have been given a second chance.

A chance to be reborn again,

not in the flesh as I have already been.

But still, I must revamp my body and mind

to become better, stronger and more

than I  have ever been before.

Being patient and giving myself ample time to incubate,

and develop fully into the best me I can be.

I have a chance to be reborn again,

not in the spiritual sense as I have already been.

But still, I must refresh, renew and improve my relationship with Christ.

When I look back on my life I have transformed myself too many times to count.

So many different chapters in my life.

So many different types of books my life has been and continues to be.

It seems my life has gone down too many different paths,

getting lost along the way,

and sometimes reaching a dead end.

I must find a way to keep focused on positive dialogues in my life

and inside my own mind,

find consistent, reliable and positive characters in my life,

and develop a new plot that I can keep, follow, thicken and grow,

until one day I will have a happy ending.

…and she lived

happily ever after.

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Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved

Be a Mona Lisa

Just because we all need to be reminded how good we truly are from time to time. This is a little inspirational free verse poem. I hope you like it. Be well and become the masterpiece you are…

Be a Mona Lisa

Mental illness and stigma do not run parallel to anything.

They cross and intersect every aspect of the many lives they touch,

piercing like sharp daggers in the center of our lives,

changing the appearance, dimensions and texture of our polygons of living.

The goal is to transform and unite the many diverse lines of mental illness

into beautiful masterpieces of art displayed in this gallery of life.

Worthy of admiration, respect, praise and applause,

we must accept that we are deserving of this claim.

There is only one Mona Lisa with her half-smile.

If there were more than one,

it would not be a masterpiece at all.

The uniqueness of your character and beauty captures people’s eyes.

Love yourself and become the masterpiece you are.

Stand out and make a difference in this galaxy of stars.

~written by Susan Walz

Copyright 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com  | All Rights Reserved

Silent Dawn

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Silent Dawn

By: Francesca Seopa

Follow me,
Oh Dear friend,
Through this ochre world.
A world where no man’s heart Beats for others.
A world where no blood will warm your bodies;
And has the personality of winter.
A world where no patience exists,
And promises aren’t for keeping.
Welcome, To the World of Stone.**

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Thank you for being with me. I look Forward to seeing you again soon. Let us rebuild a healthy state of mind.

Love,

Francesca

Melancholy – A Poem

“And so being young and dipped in folly, I fell in love with melancholy.”

Edgar Allen Poe

Hello. You’re back. I remember you well. We go way back and are like old friends of sorts, or acquaintances, or frenemies rather.

I missed your familiarity. You are ugly, yet comfortable like my old favorite, ripped up, tattered and torn sweatshirt.

I feel you. I know you. I sensed you were coming back and here you are.

Now, I’m not alone in my loneliness. Not with you entering back into my life. You are here giving me a gentle hug. A squeeze to my heart. A peculiar warmth. Your essence creating a sorrowful glow that touches my heart weighing it down like an uneven brick of pressure.

You are a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause. Your name is melancholy. A painful melancholy that overwhelms and overflows my spirit.

Miss melancholy, I know you. Sometimes you bring all your friends with you. Sadness, sorrow, unhappiness, desolation, dejection, depression despondency, the blues, gloom and misery. You are basically the same and yet slightly different at the same time. You seem to work in groups. One leads to the other or leads to a group of mass destruction that can wreak havoc on the most beautiful life.

You call out my name and scream, but no one else can hear you except me. I listen to you because I know you. You have been part of my life for many years, since I was a little girl.

The depths of familiar pain I have reached with you by my side. This indescribable feeling is still a feeling. Oh, the depths of something I can’t describe.

I have been blessed and cursed in ways others can never know unless they too have been visited by your touch. I know the depths of human emotion for I have known death while living. Pre-death, the outer edges of dying, the place just tipping the end. A flirtatious taste of what it is. I know it. I have been there.

Your hug is singing inside me. You have come to visit so far a little bit at a time. However, I fear you will overstay your visit. Please do not try to get too close. I don’t want you to stay and enter back into my life fully and completely. You are destructive and can lead to depression.

You have caused tears already. Tears that have come when I did not want them to come. I think you have been here long enough. It is time for you to leave and take your tears with you. Take your sorrow. Take your grief and your shame and you hurt and your regret. Take it all. I do not want it. I need you to flee. It is time for you to run, scram and scadaddle out of here.

Get out of my heart, get out of my soul and get out of my life for good. Never return.  Goodbye.

“Melancholy is the happiness of being sad.” Victor Hugo


Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved

A Mental Health Resource – Poetry by Cass

I was asked by a fellow mental health blogger a writer if I would share her newly published collection of poetry entitled Rooted. It is always the point of this blog to celebrate other bloggers and writers within the mental illness community so that the real people in the community are highlighted. Here is the information on Cass’ work.

Rooted by Cass

Hi everyone! My name is Cass and I’m a Canadian blogger, and newly published author! My collection of poems, titled Rooted, has just released and I’d like to share some of my words with you.

Rooted has a strong focus on love and heartbreak, self-love, self-improvement, and mental illness.

Mental illness is something that will affect everyone in some way at least once in our lives, whether it be yourself or a family member that’s suffering.

I use poetry as an outlet; that’s how this collection started. I would just write down the words that came to me, especially on my down days, and it became a collection I can share with others.

I hope my words reach you in some way, and can maybe give you the guidance you need or the reassurance that with whatever demons you are battling, you are not alone.

The poem below is the first in my collection, inspiring the collection title. Willow trees are a big part of this book and my writing. They represent strength and the ability to stand through challenges, and I wish to be the same, so they’ve become a big symbol for me.

You can visit my blog here: www.turningpages00.wordpress.com

And order my debut collection here: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1732464324/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1539863672&sr=8-1&pi=AC_SX236_SY340_FMwebp_QL65&keywords=cassandra+chaput&dpPl=1&dpID=41e0yxddswL&ref=plSrch

Rooted cover

Rooted

I am rooted.

A tree standing tall, resilient in the harsh, blowing winds.

Strong I stand.

I feel the storm arrive.

The clouds surround the sun, suffocating its light, allowing for dark days.

There are days when the ghosts whisper in my ears, making me question all that I know.

There are days when the clouds cry, making the ground muddy from their tears.

I walk, and feel stuck.

Unable to move

My feet are slowly sinking into the earth

I feel like crying with the clouds.

But I’m too strong for that.

The winds are powerful, and I feel like anything could knock me over.

I’m not the best with balance, but I’m getting there.

My Dear Old Friend

You use to help me when I needed you the most.

Dependable. Reliable.

Confident. Creative.

Sharp. Quick with the wit.

You helped me find the perfect words to say.

Reminded me of memories from my past,

reliving beautiful images and making them last.

You helped me understand a movie I watched

or comprehend words from a book,

so I could interpret the words in a way that I should.

I loved you.

You were always there for me,

until you vanished and betrayed me.

You left me. I was left to defend myself in a world all alone.

A world that is not kind to people like me, living without you, after you left.

People did not understand that only part of me had left.

That part of me missing was you, but the rest of me was still there.

Parts of me were still intact.

They just couldn’t see the real me hidden from the rest of me, after you left.

I was not the same, but I was still there.

I was still the kind and caring person I have always been.

I was in there somewhere.

Trying to be strong and get out again.

I needed a gentler world to see me and guide me through,

as I tried to live in a world without you.

I missed you

and needed you desperately.

I can’t live without you.

The world was a scary and difficult place to live without you.

Then slowly you came back to visit.

Not all at once and never exactly the same.

But, still you returned.

I began to see the world as a better place again.

Nothing changed, but yet everything changed.

Images became clearer and more vivid.

Words came back quicker, some memories restored.

Information recalled. Functioning and living returned.

I began to enjoy life again.

My light became lit.

My spark ignited.

Joy and love filled my heart,

because you came back.

You are my dearest friend.

You,

my friend,

are my mind

and you left me.

You left me when I needed you the most.

Never leave me again.

I need you.

You complete me.

You make me whole.

I cannot live without you.

A mind is a terrible thing to lose.

I will do everything in my power and control

to never lose you again.

You are always a friend of mind mine.

Never mind.

We will always be BFFs,

best friends forever,

my mind and I.

~written by Susan Walz

Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved

The Stigma Bubble – a poem

I once lived in a bubble

the mental illness kind of bubble.

I didn’t know the truth, only what I saw on TV.

Pretending it wasn’t real. Refusing to see

the truth of mental illness and the reality

of its huge prevalence from sea to shining sea.

One day I became the statistic, the one in five.

Forced to learn. Jumped in head first. Took a dive.

I became what and who they stigmatize.

A shameful deplorable vision, right before their eyes.

Surrounded myself with rubble,

a mental illness kind of  muzzle.

Soon became tired of the negative, hurtful stuff.

Learned to survive and thrive. Enough was enough.

I was no longer ashamed.

My new life reclaimed.

There was beauty in knowing the magnitude and scope

of the endless possibilities of a future full of hope.

We must all realize, sometimes it’s okay not to be okay.

It happens to many and you will make it through one day.

~written by Susan Walz

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” ~Anais Nin


Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved

Heaven Knows I Meant Well

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Heaven Knows I meant Well:

By: Francesca Seopa

Heaven knows i meant well
My fiction was less of a fairy-tale for me to sell
Heaven truly knows i meant well
My truth sounded more like a lie to sell

The love of life and self
The sight of a pair of doves stricken by strife
Freedom placed on a shelf

Psalms in my palms
Driven by the muscle if proverb in my arms
The sin of genesis in my genes
Followed by the scenes of slavery
Led by the kings of Samuel in chivalry

Meer mortals trapped in paradise
Promised of a portal to their current destination
A fear of kindness
The trauma of happiness

Heaven knows i meant well
My story was just a bit hard to tell
A dive into the devils devotion
Delving in the promotions of hell

Seeking sincerity in sober thought is a path that leads me down the route of anxiety

Sympathy in sins sedated seduction
A dance with the devil
A blink from heaven
A gamble in hope of a lucky seven

Love is what i seek
Trust is what i speak
Honesty is what i feel society leaks

Heaven knows i meant well
My reality seemed more like a far fetched fiction
Traumatized by the inability to distinguish between friend and foe
Lost and in doubt
Depressed and devastated
Heaven knows i meant well.

Thank you for being with me. I look forward to seeing you here again. Let us rebuild a healthy state of mind.

Love,

Francesca

I Dreamed a Burning Man (A Prose Poem)

I have wanted to share this poem for months now. It is perhaps the best poem I have ever written. It is a real personal poem inspired by my dreams (the prompt was to write a dream poem.) I share it today because I this piece has already been rejected by two different poetry magazines (though I am not giving up!) I would love some feedback so that I can better this poem and maybe get it published– please don’t hold back! It is a prose poem. Enjoy.

Always Keep Fighting (AKF)

James

I Dreamed a Buring Man by J.E. Skye

It is happening again— always the same. I am speeding, no we are speeding, down a winding road of the experiences of the past blurring into nothingness as it passes me by. Something in the air is just out of reach. I see a man with jet black hair, hunched over shoulders, and the shape of his face— so familiar. I can see his blood begin to boil, anxiety rising reaching every inch of his existence. He begins to burn inside the fire reaching his skin. The burning man grasping for breath, losing the battle with oxygen, and the numbness creeping in. First in his hands— consuming then moving and ever overwhelming every inch of his reality. I exist just outside the pain looking into a fast moving… something. Is that me? Even outside his existence, I feel his agony.

The burning man speeds down the snaking winding road and grips the wheel in hopes to steady himself— to steady the past blurring past him. Exhaustion wipes over his face as looks at me, and I begin to reach out to help this man. A car starts to take focus, first with my eyes and then appearing the moment I thought it into being. Horror washes over me as something invisible keeps me trapped in place— just outside the speeding vehicle. I can reach but not touch the man. We move like a cheetah down this unfamiliar twisting road that seems so familiar. The burning man writhes in pain unable to stop, the world blurs into darkness all around us.

It takes every part of me to make the words escape my mouth. “You must stop this,” I yell at the burning man. “Breathe, you must.” He inhales air filling his lungs to capacity, releasing slowly. Everything all around slows, slowly at first. With his every breathe the blurry images passing us by beginning to take shape. They are memories of a black-haired man with a beard like steel wires trying to steady a jet-black car as he tries to control his breathing.

My eyes and face begin to take shape all around me, and a storm begins to brew on the horizon as the burning man finds himself. Control. He looks at me, and I gasp in amazement. My face. My body. My life. The man reaches out to grip my hand into his, and we become one. I see clearly. We have been here before. The memories of the past and the storm— the uncertain future. I grip the wheel, and with my right hand, I push the car into gear. Ready for the storm ahead.

Photo Credit:Antony Xia