12:15 AM

I was thinking about writing more poetry because its not an A-typical thing that I would do as it is the weaker area of my writing, but I have my moments. If you want to read more about my life, please consider purchasing my memoir here. It will not disappoint if you want to learn more about my life living as The Bipolar Writer with Bipolar One. In the book I explore even deeper topics than the ones written here on my blog. Here is a poem, which is also a chapter in my book.

12:15 am

It’s 12:15 am, I am in a dark room

my mind racing and

the panic rising out of nowhere.

Shallow and slow, 

I can’t catch my breath.

It happens, every night, this night— the next.

Restlessness. A feeling of unease.

“I can’t do this” I think. 

A tingling feeling engulfs my hands, 

numbness consumes my body.

I pace, take a drink of water—

then begin to pace again.

I must stay inside, “no— I can’t.”

I must go outside, “no— you can’t.”

“Fight this feeling! Please!” A different part says.

“You will never win this fight,” the anxiety answers.

My mind races faster this time, I’m running out of breath.

Helplessness, I am no longer in control of my body.

I overthink. “I am going to die!” 

“Please stop! You must fight,” my heart and brain say.

Then again, I over think! And again. 

My mind overthinks, “Is this my life?”

I feel as if I am under water trying to catch my breath,

to be the person I was before I started to drown.

Sleep, it would be divine. I reach

for this tiny white pill. It is in my hand.

My salvation.

God, I want to sleep

so much to do tomorrow.

The weight of my school obligations crushing me. 

Finally, in control— again.

Anxiety, why do you control me so?

It’s over for now, but

tomorrow is another day.

Another 12:15 am.

Always Keep Fighting

James

You can visit the author site of James Edgar Skye here.

Purchase The Bipolar Writer: A Memoir here.

My Memoir

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Photo by Lucian Alexe on Unsplash

In Dreams

sleepless nights
and sleeping in
aimless walks
on dimly lit streets
shooting stars
above a back yard trampoline
singing songs
to the sky that never listens

binging fruit loops
on a front porch swing
dancing downstairs
in our underwear

last two hits
of our parents’ cigarettes
chugging beer
in the bath tub upstairs
washing it all down
with mountain dew

morning cartoons
snuggling in bed
the morning gleam
through your bedroom window
lighting up your skin
a brilliant hue

in all this time
it never hit me
in all this time
i never knew

no time could be like this time
no future could give me you

in dreams i hold you tighter
in dreams i laugh even more
my dreams can give me
what life can no more

Guest Blog Post on The Bipolar Writer Blog

I was asked by a guest blogger to post this blog article on my site. As with all guest blog posts, as opposed to contributor bloggers, the content is not officially a part of The Bipolar Writer Blog. Today we have Aditya’s post. You can find the guest bloggers work here.

 Infinite Desires, Finite Satisfactions

From afar and nearby,

Wretched came in for charities,

Asking alms,

The mighty king, fulfilling all them desires.

The time limited,

Mercy unlimited,

In seven lands,

The word spread.

Wondering came a saint,

Wise, grey, exceptional,

Curious about the gathering,

All day held, until night bestowed stars.

Appealing alms, with king’s own palms,

Wishes granted, only to fill the saint’s vessel,

Instead with jewels, not grains,

Until it overflowed.

Jewels limited,

Capacity unlimited,

The vessel, 

Never reach to capacity.

What a dismay, 

The monarch exclaimed,

Wary, ne’er overtaken by grief,

Enquired, the make of vessel.

The material, 

Saint respectfully answered, 

A skull,

To a skeleton.

The bowl-o-skull,

An indication of infinite desires, 

Jewels, 

A symbol of satisfaction- finite.

Desires, 

A pool of infinity.

Satisfaction,

A bucket-full of water.

Peep within, 

Not without.

-Aditya

My Demon Said To Me

Broken and alone
Chilled to the bone
Confused, spinning
From the chorus in my home
‘You’re not enough
You’re not enough
You can’t do it on your own’

I concede
I give in
Okay, I’ll listen
I must admit
I’ve come to love
The way the cold blade glistens

But when I close my eyes to go
Among those who
Took fate by the throat
Something whispers
Soft and slow

I tilt my head
To lean in to the muse
And my demon says
No one can hurt you

As long as I’m here…no one can hurt you.

Kind of Like a War Hero

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

I survived a war,

but was never in the military.

I have battle scars,

but was never in combat.

I have PTSD.

That illness you understand for veterans.

I survived a war,

that I’m still battling.

I’m a survivor,

but I’m still surviving.

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

My father was my war.

He is still my struggle,

my battle,

my sorrow,

my pain.

I recently saw my father and my brain regressed to a frightened little girl.

Parts of me are still there. Shattered. Frightened. Sad.

Hidden in a corner in my closet, knees scrunched up tight, head buried in.

I will continue to fight, to grow again.

I will love my little girl self and hold her, comfort her and soothe her wounds.

I will be the parent she never had.

I love you Suzie. You are beautiful.

You are strong. You are so many wonderful things.

You can be all the things you couldn’t be before.

Be them now. Find them. Find you.

There is still time.

Find a way.

Become the new you. Anything you want to be.

I am kind of like a veteran.

A different kind of veteran,

but still I need to celebrate me.

I have PTSD, but not the kind you understand.

I was never in the war.

Not that kind of war. A different kind of battle.

I was never sexually abused.

It was not that kind of abuse.

It was the other kinds of abuse.

The physical and the words.

It was the words and how he said them that hurt the most.

The kinds you say I should just get over.

The kinds you think I should just let go.

It was the different kinds of abuse,

but still I have PTSD,

and I am a survivor.

I survived a war.

A different kind of war,

but still I am a survivor.

I survived my father.

I’m still surviving my father.

Each time I see him I return to war.

His words, his tone.

They trigger me back to enter that war zone again.

It is my war. My private battle.

A war I re-enter

each time I see my father

or when an image, a sound, a phrase, or a tone

triggers me back to the battles,

the fear, the pain and the heartache.

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

I survived a war.

My father

was my war.

I survived my father.

~written by Susan Walz

 

© 2020 Susan Walz | myloudwhispersofhope.com | All Rights Reserved

Photo credit: Photo by Vero Photoart on Unsplash

Stuck on a Stranger

Well… it’s been a while since I’ve shared one of my poems with you. It can be a different sort of raw/openness to share these with the public, a very different way than I feel like most of my blogs are. With my blogs, I do my best to take my life and write it as though I’m telling someone the story of my life, vs. feeling like my blog is a journal. Yet, when I post my poetry, it feels like I am sharing with you a secret page from my personal diary. I hope you enjoy.

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The One Thing That Keeps Me Going

More and more people tell me to do what makes me happy. Writing makes me happy. Whether I’m writing a poem, a short story, a novel, or blog journal post; writing makes me happy. Lately it doesn’t feel like anything else makes me happy. Nothing really. Sometimes coworkers make work fun but it’s not something that makes me happy. I mean truly happy like this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. Something I feel within my soul reminding me why I’m alive and why I was born. Writing is the only thing that has given me that feeling.

I look back on things I’ve done and things I thought I enjoyed. I feel everything led me to this point. Everything made me who I am; who I’m supposed to be. This realization comes with one fear. I believe I’m supposed to be alone on this journey. Every experience, every encounter, every person I’ve met; it feels like it all is telling me to let go of everything and pursue this adventure alone. I don’t want to be alone. I’ve always felt alone. Why would the Universe tell me my journey is a lonely one?

I’ve heard people say writing is a lonely craft. That’s not true for everyone. Most writers have an editor. Sometimes it’s a close friend. Sometimes it’s a professional who becomes a friend. Some writers have a core group of people they trust to read the early drafts of their work. I’ve tried and failed to find this. People express interest but not much else. When I approach them with my work, I think they’re surprised like they didn’t expect me to follow through. So, I write five different drafts until I feel satisfied and either self-publish or submit to online magazines. I get many rejection letters.

Everyone says that is the life of the writer. Even the great writers had many rejections. Add those rejections to the personal rejections in life. I mean finding the courage to talk to your crush and getting rejected. I mean trying to make new friends and then they disappear and ignore all your attempts at communication. I mean the rejection one feels everyday added to rejections that say your writing isn’t good enough. All those hours you spent improving your story didn’t improve it enough. Rejection on top of rejection on top of more rejections. Not including rejections from childhood that stay with you.

Many writers struggle but most have a support system to help them keep going. Family and friends who tell them not to give up and keep at it. Never give up; never surrender. I don’t have that support. I share my writing and most people ignore it. I share a cat video, and everyone loves it. How do I keep going? The only answer I can think of is writing makes me happy. Nothing else in the world brings me that kind of joy so the rejections don’t break my resolve. I know I’m depressed when I’m not writing.

Writing gets my emotions out. Writing releases my thoughts so they don’t bottle up. It’s therapeutic. But it’s not enough. I’m seeking help but I still need a support system. I need friends and family. I gave up on my family years ago. I keep trying to find new friends, but I don’t think they want to put them time in on me. Maybe I’m too much for them. Maybe they think I’m a basket case. Maybe they don’t care about my writing or if I’m alive or dead. I’d have given up by now if not for writing. Sadly, writing has yet to help me pay the bills. I guess I’ll keep writing until it does.

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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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

Drowning In Thought: Seeking A Corridor of Courage.

adult-alone-black-1030940

I would not look upon my anger as something foreign to me that I have to fight. I have to deal with my anger with care, with love, with tenderness, with non-violence. – Thich Nhat Hanh

Drowning In thought: Seeking A Corridor of Courage.

By: Francesca Seopa

Lost in words

Drowning in thought

Seeking a corridor of courage.

In search of a craft

That can help me culminate a

collage of creativity.

Engulfed in engraved empathy

On all levels of perspective.

Preaching Peace yet overwhelmed by pain.

Chained by trauma

Trapped by memories of Tragedy.

Yet, I still seek a corridor of courage.

With paintings compassed by a 

collage of creativity.

Reflecting on the realities,

Realized on a journey

Rallying for unquenchable freedom.

Lost I might seem

Afraid I am,

An uncensored desire I’ll always have.

Driven by Destiny,

And A self Narrated Philosophy.

Lost in thought

Drowning in words,

Yet, I’ve never felt such warmth.

A home in confusion,

A hut in hostility.

Painful yet fulfilling

A pleasure found in destruction.

A self narrated ” building ” Destruction.

Driven by Destiny,

Or A self Narrated Philosophy?

I will Find Myself,

As I Voyage through this Destruction.

Surely, A Self Narrated Philosophy 

And Driven By Destiny and Passion.

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

Love,

Francesca