I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
My disintegration looks like a tsunami that destroys me
I try to navigate the tidal waves of my emotions
and that tidal waves washes over me, and I’m overwhelmed
and my logic is short circuited, and impulsivity takes over
Oh shit I posted that
Oh fuck I bought that
Sorry, I didn’t mean that-
And I harm myself and others without malicious intent
and don’t remember how it happened
I wrote this poem in 2019.
Our relationship slowly wilted
Too many broken promises
Too many sacrifices on my part
I gave you my youth and you two children
and you couldn’t give me an ounce of affection
I tried to melt your icy cold wall and you denied my warmth
And I tried over and over again to save us!
But how do you save something that continues to die?
Date nights, long conversations,accommodating to your needs continuously,
and marriage counseling
but all of it was useless and completely pointless
So I gave up and let our marriage fall into a coffin
along with your broken promises to change
I even kept the coffin open with a slight hope we could fix us
But one day I got tired of waiting, waiting and waiting
and I decided to close the coffin and nail it shut-
It was time to bury our lackluster love
I wrote this poem in June of 2022.
The cure for a broken soul is finding love and validation
within yourself
It’s finding beauty in the ordinary
It’s finding joy in the mundane moments of life
The cure for a broken soul is finding faith and hope
in the most trying of times
and accepting the darkness within you is temporary
and not everything deserves your energy
The cure for a broken soul is acceptance and love
from the universe, the source and God
Spring, I hope you bring creativity and love
I hope you bring a brand new season of a healthy and calm me
I hope you bring to the forefront my beauty within
I hope you bring a happiness unknown to me
I hope you bring a new sense of serenity
I wrote this poem in May of 2022.
I’m finally free from the chains of love
I felt truly a slave to it
Thinking I needed it, thinking I wanted it
But the truth is
the only person I ever needed was me
I never needed anyone else to care for me,
to love me
it’s always temporary until they leave
Today marks my independence day
from love’s heavy and terrible weight
Because I am worth more than another fickle soul
Who I always become too much for
Because I deserve a sense of emotional stability
After so many emotional scars caused by love
Aqui esta la version en espanol:
https://lifeonthebpd.com/2022/01/30/poesia-pequenas-riquezas/
he watches her as she sleeps
and the emotions she stirs up in him
this was supposed to be a casual agreement
where only each other’s primal needs got met
she’s not easy or convenient
she has way too many issues
and yet here he is starting to love her
I wrote this poem in May of 2022.
People say I shouldn’t give up on love
and it’s really just my bad luck
But how do I explain
How love makes me insane
It’s not the men I pick
It’s really me, me, me
I’ll become the version they want me to be
thinking they’ll stay with me-
behave, swallow my words, hide my anger,
implode on myself in the privacy of my journal
but keep my mask of sweet princess on-
but this never last for long
something always happens
it’s just a matter of when
when will I get tired of hiding who I am
and start being erratic and crazy
When will they get tired of my bullshit
and decided to leave
and almost always, this ends up
as an emotional catastrophe for me
so I’ve come up with a solution
I’m going to make my newfound solitude
a haven, a sanctuary to fall into
give myself as much time as I need
to enjoy the gift on my own company
understanding that this isn’t an ending
but rather a brand new beginning for me
to write and edit my own unconventional love story
I wrote this poem in May of 2022.
I wonder where all of my money goes
but then I go home to the bottomless pits
that are my kids
and then I go upstairs to my bedroom
where my closet is exploding with clothes
and then I look under bed full of shoes
and then I go downstairs to my record player
and looks at my various vinyls
and we won’t even talk about my newly
acquired furniture from Amazon
now I understand
my money goes to my busy life
and my BPD spending impulsivity
Happy International Workers Day! I wrote this poem a few years ago reflecting on what achieving my American dream looked like at the time.
I am a slave to the severe master
of capitalism and greed
Risking my mental and physical health
to get closer to the haves
New car, new therapist–
Am I closer to the American dream yet?
Capitalism and greed has become my religion
The curse of consumerism some say
The curse of wanting better for me I say
Greed and capitalism–
is the American way
for my American Dream
I wrote this poem on Valentine’s Day of 2022.
Your false love swallowed me into an ocean of oblivion
and I almost drowned
You consumed my mind with anxious thoughts
of whether or not I mattered to you
And thoughts of death visited me when you ignored me
Feelings of worthlessness and emptiness
threatened my wretched existence over and over again
because of your inconsistent love
But one day, I was enough by myself
I didn’t need your pseudo love
So I’m banishing you to the land of past lovers
who never deserved the magic
of my love
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I feel raw with emotions
It’s like someone has ripped off
the scab of an almost healed heart
and it’s bleeding once again
And while this time
it’s not pulsating with anger and rage
it still hurts
like a small paper cut
you can’t see but it’s still there
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
I wish I could be perfect to everyone in my life,
the perfect mom, the perfect coparent, the perfect mistress
but the pressure gets too loud within me
And I need to get away from how I want to be perceived
I’ll never be the perfect anything
I’m never be June Cleaver or the perfect dream girl
I can only be authentically and imperfect me
And maybe me and everyone in my life
need to accept that’s the best I can be
I wrote this poem in April of 2022.
My diagnosis doesn’t define me,
It empowers me, it makes sense of my nonsense
I’m not crazy or chaotic or even hard to love
I’m a dream come true wrapped up in complexity
sure at times I feel like a nightmare
But don’t all of us get rough at times
So whoever gets scared and runs away from me
Sorry not sorry, I’m too much
and you’re just not enough
I wrote this in March of 2022 for World Bipolar Day.
I wear the stigma of a bipolar diagnosis and hide this big secret
This secret has been a part of me since my teens
This secret explains my sometimes uncontrollable insanity
This secret at times robs me of my sleep
This secret has taken me on many fun and lustful adventures
This secret makes me write, write, write
so I don’t want to die, die, die
I keep this secret and take medication for it
But one day, I’ll scream out loud my mental health truth
I’m bipolar 2
I’m not enough to ruin your life but just enough to fuck it up
a little at a time
I wrote this poem in March of 2022.
I’m tired of the bustle and hustle
that comes with my social status
and the color of my skin
Why wasn’t I raised with privilege
and wealth instead of being raised
with poverty and trauma?
And I try and I try and I try
to find a way out of this cruel existence
but it’s futile
I take pride in my never ending hustling
but at times it feels so exhausting
There seems to no end in sight
for this fruitless fight
