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#writing #poetry #poem #spokenword #words #buttonpoetry #poet #freeverse #bipolardisorder

[whatifco]

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Sunshine Underwater

And fuck what this person said and that person said or what he asked or what they don’t understand.

I’m having enough trouble explaining it to myself.

Still, that idea is difficult for most to grasp.

However, life is looking clearer from down here.

Simple.

There are no distractions.

Like laying underwater, looking up at objects above.

It’s quiet and I only see general shapes, hear my heart beat which leaves no room to be weighed down by details; the minutia of everyday life.

And maybe the details wouldn’t be so bad except I have this way of blowing things out of proportion.

Plus I’m easily entertained when longing for entertainment.

This is when vices suffice and I find myself stuck inside my head.

Or another city.

Both places far from the voices of reason I’ve mindlessly ran from.

I find myself living without reality.

Like running on a treadmill, I go through the motions without ever moving forward.

It’s after these times when the words come.

Dancing across the lines of my mind showing me what to write, how to share.

This compulsion to write, even with no intent to speak out loud or perform is cathartic.

Leave it on a forum for whoever to see.

And I’m communicating with family at least for right now.

I’m sleeping in my bed again, my dog next to me.

This comfort my dog provides solidifies my idea of home.

The relief of rest.

Enough rest to realize, “this is it, this is life, I’ll be ok, I’m here.”

Like pointing out a raining sky or a full moon.

The obvious can be most exciting.

Still, the medication makes a great difference as does the one supplying it.

My psychiatrist is open-minded while still guiding.

He’s intelligent but learning.

He’s given me a combination which has allowed hope for the day we figure out how to remove this world I’ve been wearing on my shoulders.

Like militarized police, my battle doesn’t justify the attire.

Medication and the promise of therapy along with the introduction of a mentor who views this shit similarly—it can’t be too little too late.

If it is, I’ll write an “I owe you”, ask for an extension, get uncomfortale and keep moving.

Even when the well has dried, I’ll write.

Even when the basis is, “today was nice” or, “that shit sucked.”

I can’t allow my life up until now to be for nothing, I’ve thought a lot about this.

There has been wrongfully convicted felons serving time the entire length of my life.

How wasteful humans have been, which is why I can’t be.

There are black communities who never had the opportunity for help, even when they asked for it; when they needed it.

Families locked in cages, just miles away from me.

A community of LGBTQIA being forcefully told to change who they are.

Endless examples of why I can’t just lay down and die.

I know I’ve only just emerged from a mixed state—or was I hypomanic ?

I’m still learning, I’m still learning, I’m still learning.

Excuse me.

I’m still feeling the veil brush past my face as it makes way to the floor, and I realized I haven’t been saying any positive affirmations lately.

All of this begs the question, “If I applied what I know now, then, would I have done it all differently?”

Of course.

[whatifco]

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Make Believe.

Let’s play pretend.

“Let us” as in myself and me.

It’s easier that way, internally.

The people in my head are how I want them to be.

Including myself.

I see them all proud of me.

A fantasy of family, friends of family—I don’t really have my own friends—actually— I don’t have my own as in absolutely.

I’m working on being honest and specific.

Ok. (So).

They’re all smiling as I play guitar.

Hold down a job.

Paint routinely.

Write more.

Share more of me.

I don’t look away when someone’s eyes meet mine.

I see myself somewhere deep down in the burrows of my brain, doing these things.

Taking meds, showing up to therapy, hanging with healthy friends I’ve made, fighting through my old behaviors.

Ridding myself of the worst of me.

I see this version of myself, this phantom desperately fighting to fulfill my reality.

I’m reliable, respectful and hardworking.

Like a resumé but true.

And I’ve stopped making excuses, I’ve started unpacking boxes.

I take Sammy on walks and out to play, he’s healthy and happy.

So am I.

And I believe all this, and I believe the pride they feel is warranted .

All this and more, in my head, the world I live in is endless.

All the things that make me the toxic waste that I am, dissolve into the walls of my cranium, oxidize and fade away.

Inside there’s no paranoia , no fear of the future, no anxiety nor depression.

Mixed states, obsolete.

And I’m invincible there so long as my perception of who I want to be doesn’t change.

I find comfort in this truth.

This notion of a world inside my head creates hope for me beyond what has been.

I can fix my eyes on the present and be mindful of the possibility of a future.

I’ll be nostalgic without longing.

I can bury the past while still avidly remembering it.

I’ll stay far from the grave because I’m good at digging up memories or acquaintances that are better left untouched.

What I’m getting at is I can let go.

The way I haven’t before.

I can do more than one thing at a time if I take it slow.

Bipolar and this “war with boredom” don’t have to win over me.

I’m allowed to be the victor.

My family deserves a champion in me.

I’ll destroy the circle; move on.

[whatifco]

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