L3 PUBLICATIONS

Raised as a loner,

No home to call my own.

A vagabond with no limits,

With wounds that need sewn.

I let the bleeding stop,

Treading towards the night sky.

I felt like I could reach the moon,

Not knowing when my dreams would die.

I overcame a lot,

Putting my childhood to rest.

I became a new person,

I was finally at my best.

Depression was a problem,

But I knew could get through it.

I believed I could overcome anything,

Until my soul began to split.

Oh how confusing it was,

They said I was too young.

Even medication did not help,

Nor did the tales of my tongue.

None of this adds up,

Therapy could not as well.

Here I am sitting in my mind,

Though it’s like a prison cell.

No one has the key,

Not even myself.

If I has become we,

Then how do we find ourself?

Well it takes some stress,

Then we’re ready to go.

Mania will have our back,

All before we start to feel low.

We get no sleep either way,

For nightmares or ecstasy.

When I am in between these two,

I am consumed by pure jealousy.

How would it be,

With no hysteria or distress?

If I could enjoy things again,

Not needing to smoke in excess?

Weeks will go by,

Just like all the hope I have left.

I realize I am good for nothing,

An artist who is no longer deft.

The time is spent in my bed,

If I am not sobbing in my car.

I want to escape to somewhere else,

Though I know I’ll never get that far.

So all I can do is get wasted,

Just like my talent and potential.

The people I love can’t stand me like this,

In their life I am not seen as essential.

Then I hit a valley,

Finally balanced out.

But I still hate who I am,

I seem to do nothing but pout.

Bipolar disorder is what we call this,

I’m afraid there is no cure.

This cycle goes on forever,