Bipolar Life

Famous People Who Have Had Mental Illness

Hans Christian Anderson, Ludwig Von Beethoven, Winston Churchill, Kurt Cobain, Charles Darwin, Emily Dickenson, Thomas Edison, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Betty Ford, Paul Gauguin, King George III, Johan Goethe, Ernest Hemingway, Victor Hugo, Ignatius of Loyola, Thomas Jefferson, John Keats, Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther, Michelangelo, Florence Nightingale, King Saul, Robert Louis Stevenson, Sir Isaac Newton.

Let’s be careful to the next generation, not to pass what we’ve passed… my beloved.

 A letter of a bipolar child …

My automn’s break
your furious mistake’s belief
my invisible lake.

Unvaliable cry
your wandering arround me
my body’s lie.

Ridiculus thief
my heart contains more reasons
of your brain’s relief.

Enormous prejustice
she needs your fake option
to heal what your vanish.

I wake up.
Voices of my dreams mix with my ideal song.
Get up or sleep more?
Knocking the door of the sun’s rising touch.
I still see why my body needs to lay down.
No need to live something more.
No need to feel something indifferent.

I stand up duzzling my thoughts.
Repeated moves , no tension.
Coffee melting my tonque. Although I need to speek through my eyes’ dissapeared truth.
Shooting the animal’s stability sleeping in the middle of the street,
deciding to hear upon dream’s irritating voices,
I take my last things
and I go out
to the unknown indiffirence of solitude.
Waiting for a smile of a passanger,
hoping for my stones in my way to whisper
“such a perfect day”.

Taking my hand through the waves of emotion, my waves of destiny.
Keeping the secret in my mind.
How to survive.
How to proceed my destiny through others’ eyes.
Through different streets and traps.
Looking at my star above all.
How will I define my carma.
Keeping the secret in my mind.
My egoism is too big to survive.
It hides all the sea of my heart.
Looking at the sky of my star.
Battling with my illness of emotion.
getting down , getting up , trying to start over.
Recovering.
Becoming the centre of the world.
The centre of my own devotion.
Keeping the secret in my mind.
The secret of my irresistable health despite all others’ idea.
Who knows how it is to be healthy above illnesses?
Who may understand how is the centre of a bipolar’s balance?
Keeping the secret of devotion.
Looking at my star above all in the sky.
Looking at my eyes’ centre in the mirror.
Keeping the secret in my mind.
To look above all at my star.
To find a sky wherever darkness is beholding.
Keeping the secret in my heart.
In  my healthier inside.
Below the surface I have my best balance of devotion.
Looking at my sky’s star.
Keeping the secret.
Looking
     keeping
           my heart’s devotion.
Look
     keep
          my eyes’ centre.
Look
     keep
          my destiny above all.

   Through my family tree,
through the streets of my past,
   through my face, my devotion ,
my familiar must,
   I explode all my refugees of the millions fish ,
that I hide in my mind , my careless kiss.
   Give the rain on the train , in the multible noise,
keep the secret in your heart , your unavoidable voice,
   use the music for transmission,
your belief for religion
   and your health’s unexpectable and irritable choice.
What a world in the ocean,
   a planetic emotion,
in your eyes the ellusion
   the eternal confusion.
Take the shine of the sky in your meltable mouth,
   put the words of your bright egoistable south.
Where’s your breast there’s your hand,
   an invisible man,
where’s you melody there’s the majesty of your loudless fun.
   I am alive in the moon ,
my inner tune,
   my moment in the time ,
primary obvious crime.

Bubbles lyrics

Take an axe to your past
To your family tree
Carve a face from the wood
An effigy

Make wings from the leaves
Hide from the bark
Kindling for the hair
Rose for his heart

Someone to draw you right
Someone to catch the light

Draw the blue from the skies
Into his eyes
Carve the lines on his face
A map of the race

Juice from the root
Of a beet for his skin
Set the tides of the blood
With the pulse of the drum

Someone to draw you right
Someone to catch the light
I’m alive, I’m alive

Wash the boy in the stream
So tenderly
Press his lips to your lips
Give him your breath

He awakes with the weight
Of the vision he holds
Sees the rent in time
Through which he must fold

Someone to draw you right
Someone to catch the light
I’m alive, I’m alive

Stir the heart with a drum
Kiss smoke in his mouth
Show him signs of a life
That’s a whole lot better

And he calls down the rain
Tornadoes and hurricanes
There’s a world in his veins
That’s a whole lot better

I’m alive, I’m alive

Fingers raised to the sky
A snake for a spine
He’s drunk on a life
That’s a whole lot better

Teach him songs of the bees
Double helix and honey comb
Play him wind through the leaves
That’s a whole lot better

Alive, I’m alive

Yesterday I passed a sad-happy event. A friend of mine asked me to write a poem for her best friend’s  grave who was also her fellow worker, a hair-dresser. I wrote her a poem impulsively and she read it to his mother and her fellow workers today, they all loved it and they will sign it to his grave. I felt lucky that I am bipolar and I can feel so close to dead people and alive at the same time. After all I passed through manic and depressive episodes I feel fearless and rich in experiences. And if I have such an opportunity to share my internal world with other  people in 5 minutes I feel really full and serene.
Here is the poem:

Είσαι ο ήλιος
που λούζει τα μαλλιά μας
και τα χέρια μας θερμαίνει με ζωή.
Είσαι η θάλασσα
που ηχεί ανάμεσά μας με κύματα
και στη σκέψη μας δίνει στοργή.
Είσαι εδώ κάθε μέρα , κάθε στιγμή
και μας γνέφεις με ένα χαμογελαστό φιλί :
” Ζήστε, ζήστε την αιώνια ζωή. ”

You are the sun
that abluts our hair with colours
and warms our hands with life
You are the sea
that sounds waves between us
and gives affection to our thoughts
You are here, everyday, every moment
and you sign us a smiling kiss :
” Live, live the eternal life.”

Waiting for the sunrise of an invisible sun, darkness of the wisdom’s unfortunate basis, he speaks about the theory of heart’s being. Well being as it seems, provokative basic theory, almost thrown to a rubbish sack. He emerges the deepest melodies into his fingers, smoking the rush air, wasting his breath for enormous grey smoky fantasy he has totally forgotten. Amazing grace, majesty of the moment, eyes full of shiny tears, running over the invisible road of the cheeks , of the lips, of the breast that keeps the hug awfully broken. Broken heart , broken melody in the eyes of the ceiling , looking at the white sky, hoping for the clouds to hide him.
If he could feel the melody of his own rythm, how better our life would have become. How much better would the music sound in his ears and our mouth full of tears would hold the sun of the moon’s heart in its fingers. Amazing grace , through the melody of his grey absolut loneliness. Smoky, wet , dirty words rushing the best of his ear’s delusion.

I have a rain in my heart buzzing and kicking the doors. Can you feel it ? I am overwhelmed.
Only poetry can open my windows. Only poetry can bring the sunshine, through music.
I have a thunderstorm in my brain, showing off its dangerous waterfall in my hair.
Rapid drops of cry,  sheltered by bipolar poetry.

www.bipolarpoetry.com

Through your wine’s taste, your open’s book prosedure, your cigarette finished and started again, come back, hold on to yourself. Thousands miles away over you, kisses and hugs and excuses and excuses and excuses. Lie down again , leave your open breath on to yourself. Come back to you.