Hypomania

I wrote this maybe a little over a year ago. It's a trimmed-up journal entry in poetic form, so forgive me if it airs on the melodramatic side. It's definitely one of my more honest and open pieces.

I proliferate across a grid,

One inch by one-and-a-half inches,

Intubated with nostalgia

And solitude;

 

A vivacious soul,

Immune to reality,

Uninfected by Earth;

It feels filthy, allowing myself

This avaricious pleasure.

 

The wound is superficial.

I have gills,

A perforated belly,

Naked gums,

But I want to feel

In emotive expression.

 

The blinds alone

Bear witness to my honesty

Without fear

Of appearing banal.

 

My hands are graphite

And wax pencil,

The walls, unimpressionable.

 

It’s not joy,

But I’m not complacent.

 

It’s power

Without control,

Which might be prescribed and written away

For years of psychology.

 

I was once rewarded

After cyclical bouts of depression.

I used to feel

Like a god.

 

But I live in a world

Where this unsightly dance is trite.

Author's Note

I'd love any feedback you can give me!

Reviews

[Chris]

Soletaire Hangman is a hard game to win...
do you admit the word or change it at whim?
...And as the you nears its end...
is losing the sin or the same as a win?

And this had absolutely what to do with - your this?
It's power without control... and dancing young miss
is never trite... just lonely.

[Cathy Wattam]

Very good poem. Great imagery and some stunning lines. Not a pleasant subject but one which allows the soul to lay bare. I'm looking forward to more from you.