Words and stuff

Poetry from my past often shows me I am still the same person dealing with the same things. As someone with Bipolar Disorder has to. With how much the people in my life have changed over the years I wonder why not me? Do I know who am I? Is this why I am so much the same?  Strange questions I ask myself though it may be the bourbon talking.

I digress, here’s two poems while I continue to situate this blog.



In the nights last breathe
you may sit alone and cry
nothing left but hopeless dreams
that you are to imperfect for
no one cares to hear your voice
to see your sweet lipped words
but even in your loneliness
your light shines somewhere in this world.




Wandering questions
circle in my head
are they really questions?
were they really said?
too flustered
to consumed
by every rambling thought
to give a damn
about these questions in my heart.





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