Manic Mayhem. Can you relate?

Can we talk about something?

What’s the hardest part of your manic episodes?

For me, the hardest part of my manic episodes is the transition out of them

My body picks up on it before it officially happens.
Meaning there are countless days where the smiles you see projected on the outside is nothing more than the results of an internal war.

My mind tearing itself apart, begging for a few more days of self care, light, loving others, and letting others love me.

It’s gritting my teeth at things I’ve not let bother me for the past month start to slowly make my skin crawl again.

It’s an extra 45 minutes in the bathroom trying to stop crying at the reality that I’m losing grip despite holding on with all I have.

It’s the realization that I’ve spent money on new business ventures that I most likely won’t have the will to continue by the time the items come in.

It’s the 30 day trial of this new facial routine I bought, which is actually working by the way, but knowing I’ll never finish it therefore never seeing the final results

It’s the heartbreak of knowing that my happiness is attached to a time limit that I have no control over

It’s the worry that my loved ones will think I’m a fraud, because well I guess I am.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been this shell that cares about the body it carries
I’ve been outgoing
I’ve been brave
And so how do I explain the upcoming silence, ignored texts, etc

It is starting over again and again and again
Hoping that even through the countless times you’ve seen me fall
You notice that despite it all, I’ve always gotten up again.

It’s exhausting.

do you remember when you knew you were a poet?

When did you know you were a poet?

I knew I was a poet when the only thing that made my trauma, depression, and anxiety lighter was emptying some of that load onto paper and feeling GOOD about being in sync with the rhythm of how my pain flowed.

I knew I was a poet when I became a magician but instead of a magic wand, I had a magic pen. How magical it is to take some of the saddest stories and turn them into the fairy tales you cling to in hopes of a happy ending. My blues became the tempo to which I tapped my feet while I sat in deep thought about how my next song would sound.

I knew I was a poet when the whistle of the wind made the hair on my arms stand in ovation for more.

I knew I was a poet when the stars in the night sky volunteered to be my unwavering audience–twinkles as finger snaps at every line that resonated with their true selves.

I knew I was a poet when I was nothing else, and all I had to hold on to were my words.

This was inspired by a post, posted on the @poetpossibilities Instagram account. Looking at that question made many emotions come to surface. You start to think about the first poem you ever wrote and where it is now. I am glad I came across that post today as it reminded me of why I love to write and why I’ll always love to write.

Be sure to leave a comment of when you knew you were a poet. I’d love to read all your answers.

Photo by Pixabay on

Poetry Day 4, Journey/Simile

no luggage makes for a boring journey since my hands hold no stories

and as i’ve mentioned before, without my baggage how would i travel”

how could i unravel where i’m going without telling you where i’ve been

like the daughter i bore on a September night, all that is me comes from within

there is no end in sight when you have to keep starting over

peace is like the four leaf clover i desperately want to find

my mind is not my own–it is the shared space i’ve rented out to my depression and anxiety

and compliancy is a must, though it is disguised as lies dressed up as trust

the trauma that trails in my footsteps are like medusa’s stare which turned me to stone

but life is the hammer that chips away at me, so that one day i can return home

insert name here

the ignored painting in the corner


the similarities we share

curves unexplored aren’t well traveled

don’t question my hues without knowing the story behind my stroke

study me before you test me

and your failed knowledge of why the scars on my self portrait make me the most beautiful, will not be my responsibility

let my story scream from your walls before silencing me with your hands

i am the Mona Lisa of my craft

and the memory of how i made you feel will follow you around forever

a tale told by two.

Why do you feel small as your gaze takes in all that awaits us?

Have you forgotten the places that bore you?

The lengths you’ve been?

The time you’ve come?

Do your bones not scream to be reunited with their origins?

Do you not feel the shiver of stardust coursing through your soul?

You have been through galaxies, around planets, dancing through the nebula–time and space are yours and ours.

Remember, fondly.

The faster we fly the more the music fades out

And the night sky replaces the music in my ears with a sound of its own

The vibrato of the wind is on a continuous loop as it whips through my hair, natural curl by natural curl

And time stands still even while we run through it

Even with no time, time travel with you is still a trip around the moon

Is it too soon to bury myself in this freedom

Am i too late

The light of the moon dances across my face

And i remember who i used to be

Still in love with who you are

An array of stars i never thought i’d see again

I can see again and the sky has never been so bright

Nothing has ever felt so right than how i feel in this very moment

My soul is open, and our vibe is potent

Here is hoping that the belt of Orion is strong enough for the both of us

candice & clairissa