This poem describes what I feel and what it is like in my shoes. Bipolar disorder, a mental illness that basically means 'Manic aggression and/or depression'.
Channelling through my blood, vitrifying these fists.
Tears only travelling once I had gotten home,
I have changed commands, building up these lists.
Word of influence, trying only to settle me again,
Going through my mind, repeating itself in a convolution.
Looking at the floor, obscuring thumb on thumb,
My head filled with bullying memories, pollution.
My heart continues to race, as this fear flows freely,
Trembling, guilty to the additional rope to hang myself.
No religion to seek advice, which path to take?
No control in my mind, decaying my health.
A love full child, still seeking better acceptance,
The world seems to be waiting, until I return again.
I'm broken, ripped apart, stamped on with hidden detail,
I find it hard to hold back, breathe and maintain.
Connecting my bloody knuckles onto this wall,
Splintering my morals, cracking up my aims to dust.
Pushing myself in a room, in a room so black,
I can't find the way out, no way to return adjust.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 1086 times
Written on 2005-09-27 at 18:07
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Acceptance.
Bottling up the anger, scaffolding the insides of me,Channelling through my blood, vitrifying these fists.
Tears only travelling once I had gotten home,
I have changed commands, building up these lists.
Word of influence, trying only to settle me again,
Going through my mind, repeating itself in a convolution.
Looking at the floor, obscuring thumb on thumb,
My head filled with bullying memories, pollution.
My heart continues to race, as this fear flows freely,
Trembling, guilty to the additional rope to hang myself.
No religion to seek advice, which path to take?
No control in my mind, decaying my health.
A love full child, still seeking better acceptance,
The world seems to be waiting, until I return again.
I'm broken, ripped apart, stamped on with hidden detail,
I find it hard to hold back, breathe and maintain.
Connecting my bloody knuckles onto this wall,
Splintering my morals, cracking up my aims to dust.
Pushing myself in a room, in a room so black,
I can't find the way out, no way to return adjust.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 1086 times
Written on 2005-09-27 at 18:07
Tags Hatered 
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
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