EIF #2 — The Global Warming of My Mental Illness (A [Very Long] Poem)

Author’s note: Hey everybody! I am super nervous about posting this because 1. It’s been a hot minute since I posted anything resembling “poetry” on this blog, and this particular poem is super long. 2. It’s a really vulnerable piece I wrote during a manic episode earlier this year, after coming out of a really dark depression.

The first half-ish is pretty sad, but hopefully it’s worth the read.

TW: Brief, non-descriptive death mention.

Please let me know what you think in the comments!

Desperately ill,

The ink, oh, it spills from the corners of my mind.

Black fades to white,

A longstanding fight with the monsters in my mind.

The harsh winters, they nip at my fingers, and so I light a fire.

But I stand too close to the flame.

And oh, the fire burns, but oh, so do the words, as they tangle my throat and on them I choke,

But nothing, nothing hurts like it used to, ’cause even the burns, I’m used to.

When everybody leaves you.

You are alone,

And nowhere is home.

And everything new is just something else to get used to.

And people are sure to abuse you.

And they’ll use you.

Til you’re not you.

Just a “used to”.

Til you don’t even know what you used to be.

So, if You will,

Oh, I’d like You to spill,

Just a splash of truth on these lies.

Maybe it’ll get me through the night.

Just tell me, how long must I fight?

And tell me, is this even right?

And am I enough to survive?

The summer comes but once a year,

And every year it gets a little colder.

And the harsh winters, they nip at my fingers.

It’s too cold to light a fire.

So, as the ashes smoulder,

I pull my sweater closer,

But try as I might,

I can’t win this fight,

It’s forty below and I can’t see the light!

They told me that all brokenness, no matter the level distress, will all be a means that leads to an end, and if that’s the truth, I’ll will be such a good mess at the end, when I’m dead.

They say that brokenness makes you stronger.

But I’m just getting bitter,

The battle gets bigger.

And the summer gets colder.

And fall just gets greyer.

And I truly don’t think that this spring will come.

But soon the year will end,

And then what?!

What is the point? I scream to the void,

Is anybody listening? Am I just making noise?

Oh, what is the point? I scream to the void,

Am I alone in this thing?

Come back, and answer me!

You’re the one who created this brain that I’m hatin’ and my demons, they refuse to leave.

My winters get harsher and summers get colder and You’re awfully bold to assume,

That I, just a girl,

Can handle this world,

With nobody’s hands to hold,

Or is it me that’s being too bold?

I stand on a rock,

And I scream up at God,

And I must be a sight to behold.

The King of Creation must feel devastation when He sees my desolate soul.

But if I’m gonna fight,

He should turn on a light,

‘Cause a battle in darkness seems a one sided fight.

So give me a knife, or give me a pen, give me a weapon with which I defend myself.

And a light for my path couldn’t hurt.

But now this is greedy,

I’ll stop being needy, but please, just answer my cries for help!

And He said,

Trust in My plan,

This isn’t the end,

Bitterness leads only to bitter ends.

You can be bitter or you can be better,

You make the choice now, it’ll serve you forever.

This battle is almost over.

Victory is nigh.

And yes, you are strong to survive.

So, take your madness and turn it to light.

Oh, you’ve had the switch this whole time!

Power, it spills from the ink on my quill and I no longer shake in the cold.

My hands they may tremble, for but a moment,

But only ‘cause I’m growing old.

A life was lived long and to full.

The earth, oh, she creaks beneath my feet,

Signs of a weathering storm.

But I’m not alone anymore.

And together we weather this storm.

So in the harshest winter, the cold still nips my fingers,

But I use what made me bitter,

And I let it fuel my fire.

The fire, it is warm, but it does me no harm,

I stand far away from its flame,

The words come out fast and they make sense at last,

And they no longer choke me inside.

I put pen to paper and become a narrator of the stories I have in my soul.

So what I learned in the seasons is that even when it gets colder,

The summers will get warm again,

It can’t stay cold forever.

And you must not surrender.

March on in the darkness, and don’t ever quit ’cause the moment before you surrender, is when you’re the closest to light.

The madness that chases you down and threatens to bury you now is the very same madness that summons your sadness, but can also bring joy or delight.

So harness the darkness and drag it behind you until you can set it on fire.

And the fire will burn,

But no, it won’t hurt,

And oh, what a sight to behold!

The warmth and the light will fuel you at night,

And you will be safe and sound.

Spring brings new life to the world,

And the summers will get warmer,

So, even if the winter sends a chill through your bones,

Don’t fret,

Every season comes to an end,

And fall will put things right again,

But only if you remember,

That you must not surrender, as a pen must have a holder, and your story begs to be told, in only the way that you know.

And only your madness can turn all your sadness into a light.


Pretty Words

I wrote you in ink because I wanted to preserve you,

Even though I knew that words would never do,

All of the poetry in the world could never touch you, or what you meant to me.

Still I tried, and I tried, and I tried,

Writing line after line after line,

I wrote dozens of pages of pages of lyrics and rhymes,

But pretty words mean nothing when you run out of time.


I wrote you out when I realized what a mistake I’d made,

You were a coward, and a fake.

You told lie after lie after lie,

But I wrote line after line after line,

And I tried, and I tried, and I tried.

I wrote dozens of pages of lyrics and rhymes,

But pretty words mean nothing when you run out of time.


I reluctantly penciled you in when you came back,

But I kept my eraser close at hand,

Somehow knowing that I’d write you in just to write you out again.


Time after time after time,

I wrote line after line after line,

And I tried, yeah, I tried, and I tried,

But you told lie after lie after lie.


In the end I made a choice and I left you in,

But if it’s pretty poetry you’re after, you’ll have to ask her.

‘Cause I already wrote line after line after line,

Because I fell for lie after lie after lie,

I wrote dozens of pages of lyrics and rhymes,

But pretty words mean nothing when you run out of time,

And pretty words mean nothing when you stop believing the lies,

And I’m all out of pretty words.

Welcome To Wonderland (A Dark Poem) — Mental Health Post #16

I realize that this probably takes away from the “writing” portion of this post, but I had to make a disclaimer: this poem is quite old and I was in an extremely dark place when I wrote it, and it doesn’t apply to me anymore.

It almost feels wrong to post this for mental health month, honestly, but I think it’s important to see the darkness as well as the light. This was not meant to be a glorification of mental illness, it’s just how I personally felt in the middle of the darkness. Please, please do not read any further if dark themes upset you. Stay safe, Friends.

Continue reading

Anxiety – Mental Health Post #8

I’ve spent the last hour picking up the phone, dialling nine of the ten numbers before hanging the reciever back up again.

After nearly an hour of searching for someone who might be able to help, I have the number but I can’t.

What can anybody say to make this all better?

Is it possible for a counsellor on the other end of the phone line to just say some magic words and make the darkness disappear? No, I should think not.

Finally I put the phone back in its cradle and walk away,

Today is not the day.

*TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM* Seventeen Stitches – Mental Health Post #7

Hundreds of wounds on her butterfly wings,

They say she’ll never fly again.

She’s terrified, she believes they’re right,

She cries herself to sleep at night,

Holds fast to her sleeves in public sight,

Keeps face only in daylight,

Crumbling under cover of the darkest night.

She won’t let it show, but she’s falling again.

Every day she wears a mask of armoured skin,

She’ll never let another in; it’s too hard to say goodbye, and everybody leaves at some time.

Tired of the fight,

She tries again to end her life,

One long scratch with a kitchen knife.

She can’t live if she can’t fly, but she doesn’t even want to try.


They found her on her bedroom floor,

She hadn’t bothered to lock the door.

There was no hope for her, they said, and within hours she’d be dead.

They put seventeen stitches into her delicate wings with no expectation of changing things,

But when she realized what she had done, she changed her mind and she held on.

Today she flies higher, shines brighter and is more determined than ever before.

Those injured wings can’t hold her down anymore.


Let us think the unthinkable, let us do the undoable, let’s grapple with the ineffable and see if we may not eff it after all. — Douglas Adams

Maybe you’re the ineffable I must grapple with, and maybe you cannot be effed with after all.

You broke me while pretending to fix me,

You walked away with blood on your hands, and smiled as you washed the best parts of me down the drain.

I was your victim. A hopeless tumbleweed in your tornado, and you showed no remorse, even when I begged you for just a shred of truth.

It’s not like I ever asked for an apology, because I knew you’d never be able to raise yourself to that level of sincerity, but I wanted to hear why you felt the need to cut me so deep.

You stood beside my bed and watched as I cried into the dip of the mattress and bled into every word I wrote in my diaries.

You said it was all for my benefit, and you only wanted what was best for me. I still don’t know why I believed you.

You’ve got the power, but you abuse it.

You possess the truth, but you don’t use it.

You manipulate those around you, and you beat them down, so they have no choice but to stick around and love you.

And after all you’ve put me through, boy, do I ever love you.