Long Bi polar Poems
Long Bi polar Poems. Below are the most popular long Bi polar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bi polar poems by poem length and keyword.
It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low; hurry, get her home!
“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied.
the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside
“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.
And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper. The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood, and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my dissection, I burst a gut.
“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.” There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.
the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass
It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish.
Published in Dead Snakes Magazine Winter 2014
Will she be in a good mood or will it be bad?
Will she be overjoyed today, or will she be sad?
This yo-yo effect has me in such turmoil,
Never knowing if I can be myself or if its time to recoil.
Sinking into an ever growing black abyss,
Its the upbeat, smiling, wise ass that I really miss.
Take a pill to make you relax and be stress free,
Take another one for Bi-polar and you're a zombie.
I know life sucks right now, with stress at an all time high.
It doesn't help that someone left holes in you and now you don't even try.
Haven't we been through enough the last three or four years?
Do you really have to be so depressed and add to my fears?
I miss my friend, who smiled more, laughed and always had a joke.
Its sad to see a crumpled, lifeless, hollow shell who is broke.
What can I do to get you out of this deep, dark cave?
If we don't get you some help, I fear its an early grave.
I'd gladly take back the girl who makes me laugh so hard I pee,
Being so silly that tears run down my face and I can't breathe.
I miss you, come back and don't be sad, moody and terribly glum.
What will it take, sexy men, kids, Marilyn Manson or a bottle of rum?
I know you think I'm mean and I just get irritated to complain.
But that's not the case, to see you miserable causes me great pain.
Just tell how to make it better, tell me how to make it go away please!
I want my friend back, I'm begging and pleading, I'm on my knees!
ah the magical mystique of the moon
celebrated in folklore and mythology
goading howling women
who can frighten werewolves
the waxing moon
associated with reproductive cycles
of women, marine animals and wild life
ensuring we are more loving
the waning moon
connecting the celestial with deeply sacred rhythms
affecting our moods, toying with our ups and downs
shaking up people who are bi-polar
the full moon
she has amassed a reputation
birth rates rising, increased crime and hospital visits
she winks at us, loving her power
the moon is ever changing
cyclical like every form of life
revolving over and over
refreshing and replenishing us at her whim.
In my dream, I dived into the cauldron of magic potion and then... here was what I beheld:
There they huddle together seeking for peace
in their brainstorming session
as agonizing creatures of the night
tortured with self-inflicted guilt...
"I am a mother beseeching for counsel
for my daughter diagnosed with bi-polar mood disorder;
in good times, she declares that she’s the reigning Miss Universe
vibrantly, she talks to everyone… cheering them;
yet, during her down moments, she shuts herself in…
forgetting her hygiene routine, failing to eat
and worst of all... wanting to end her life
since she sees herself as a worthless worm."
"Please help us..." Sobbing midst angst
is another family member, recounting the misery-turmoil
they are going through in handling their brother’s denial
of his mental state … that when reality-check is done
they are the ones accused of not regarding the factual situation
or not being “understandable.”
Awaking, here I am today, praying with them in reality
as we come to the Lord, entreating for His power
to strengthen the parents, blessing them with patience
while they show their love, care, and support to and for their child.
For those who are cared, we plead for soul-healing
with the Prince of peace prevailing in their hearts.
We claim with triumphant hope, anticipating for His answer of grace...
believing the Scripture’s truth of Isaiah 26:3,
“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace,
whose mind is stayed on thee:
because he trusteth in thee.”
October 20, 2018
2nd place, "I dived into the cauldron of magic potion and..." Poetry Writing Contest; Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon; judged on 3/7/2025
Happy like buttered popcorn at a matinee
They see they feel they leach from me.
Have become the seasoning
Have become the salt
Deprive your self not
Fill your bowl with the drool of me
Hair raising sensation of a twisting rag
Bile rising
Ah please rub, discharge the overload
Smell the ozone
CRACK!
Deflate, the me
Red balloon strung
Hobbled horse
Towered origami edged crane, broken wing
misery mine, yours, ink seep on a white page.
Trance dancer edging toward the blue of my purple prose.
Violet coming of the id to coconut oil fakings.
Happy, ahhhhhhhh, exalted, crucified, repeat.
*Inspired BY Bi-Polar Bear by Connor Jordan
In May I joined in a collaborative write
with Jan Allison about a bi-polar bear
Since then the furry marine mammal
Has been treated at Arctic Health Care
Here is an update that may interest you
After six months of meds and therapy
Her symptons are even worse than before
She's being tracked; for her it's a tragedy
Lady polar bear roams the Arctic plains
feasting on ocean fish and baby seals
She goes on a rampage when hungry
A carnivore doesn't like missing meals
She loves to dive into frigid waters
from floe to floe, she paddles til weary
searching for the most protective cave
to hibernate. Beware of her and be leary
Lady bi-polar bear met a mate to her liking
and soon she'll become a brand new mama
While she hibernates with a baby cub or two
I'll fly to the Andes, in search of a lovely llama
The original collaboration from May 2017:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/bi_polar_bear_collaboration_with_lin_lane_901528
Funeral of a street boy from Lawrence Kansas.
Handsome lad, bi-polar, twenty-six and a half.
Dressed like a bobsled team with fake heads some days.
His mother refused to renew his motorcycle license.
This led to his death.
He feared the police would ticket him
Worse yet, confiscate his motorcycle
Because the license was expired.
There was a police chase.
His mother is the blonde headed lady wailing in grief.
Street boy’s friends speak a bit about him.
Take turns, and sometimes interrupt each other.
Some talk more about themselves than him.
Some mention his mother’s refusal to renew his license.
Others talk about being honorary members of his bobsled team.
A bobsled team in Lawrence, Kansas. A sad funeral of misfits.
A hat is passed to collect money to help his mother bury him.
There is enough to renew that license now.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your holiday in Italy
Has besmirched your legacy.
Your Cantos, they plead,
But don’t exonerate,
Not as far as I can see.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Did praise from Hemingway
Whet your narcissistic thirst?
As an ex-pat abroad,
Did you assimilate
What enlightened nations curse?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You made Il Duce smile.
There’s evidence that proves it.
Was your Republic of Utopia
Bi-polar by design?
Or was it simply hubris?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You strain my intellect
With your imagery of life,
And turn my conscience
Hard on itself
With a keen, dissecting knife.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your lyrics sing to me,
But your politics offend.
You peddled fascist ideology.
If you want my true opinion,
I refuse to condescend.
Outside the window of the 747 was a glimpse of heaven’s skies
And yet there was something more, something with green eyes
It is a hawk! I yelled to my seatmate, look, a hawk! I was amused.
He tried to see it, but got irritated, angry and final confused.
Being an empath, I often see what others cannot envision.
She was there all right, still at the window, clearly in my vision.
However, he could not see her or her partner who was coming up.
I tried to ignore this hawk, drinking my tea, with a bit of a sup.
The hawk was not easily dismissed. She wrapped on the glass pane.
She blinked her eyes, and gave me the stare of a cat in the rain.
What did she want? I had no idea, but I was clearly amazed.
She held on tightly, as if she was bi-polar or crazed.
The hawk coming up from behind her was also a sight.
He had a level black head, and he came with all might.
I tried to warn her, but she was not easy to scare.
She held on tightly to the window, as if she did not care.
The male hawk gave a noise, a squawk like croak.
She gave me a wink, and blinked her eyes at the bloke.
They flew away, but I have never forgotten
How beautiful they were, in this sweet sky of cotton.
A heavy sigh and vacant staring
through a glass walled cell.
Electric purple owls with golden eyes
loom about, transfixed and silent.
No going back.
Bloody rays of a setting sun
clash with a violet stream, teeming -
granting abundance to over-burdened fruit trees.
A glass of water, please.
The bi-polar moon looms heavy
wiping the smiles from forgotten sunflowers
and so many zombies shuffle around.
Hypnotized crypt-crawlers
gawk at a green sign, “EXIT.”
The smell is unmistakable,
but it doesn’t mask the desperation.
Synthetic vanilla, sterile.
The glass walls will hold.
It’s a strange, involuntary psychosis
sitting idle, as a plastic fan grumbles away
hour upon hour, under scrupling yellow eyes.
There's a shortage of Ativan and Vitamin H.
Another glass of water, please.
A yellow pup tent is pitched in ivory sand
and a purple-planked, rag-a-tag dock
is tied to the sea by a red canoe.
The campfire matches the moon,
but all is cast inexplicably blue.
Fevered dreams and sweaty palms
press firmly on the temples from either side.
Maybe a few more dollars
will shatter the glass walls,
or buy the proper paperwork.
Someone is humming a pop song
a few decades old, or so...
It isn’t the same without the guitar solo.
But still, what a lovely glowing green.
“EXIT”
There’s no going back,
not from this involuntary psychosis…
glass walls hold back the owls,
for the right price.
10/25/16