I suffer from bipolar disorder. I was diagnosed aged twenty eight after my first episode of severe mania. Previously i had suffered severe depression. I was in hospital 9 months that time! Nowadays I manage to live a semblance of a normal life. I take my lithium and other meds and care for my Autistic son. I write and perform spoken word poetry. Writing is my therapy and my connection to the real world! Here’s a poem I wrote about my mania during that prolonged hospital stay.


Cool, crisp, cotton
Starched beyond comfort
Almost alliteration
But I don’t want to conform
Don’t want to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.

Cold, hard floor
Nothing as fancy as parquet
Just industrial tiles of generic vinyl
Not even a hint of Brahms or The Beatles.
My mind drones along to the speed of an old 33
Dreaming of one day spinning with the fast boys
But for now, a B list artist
Singing for pence
In the bargain basement.

Heart a cuboid slab of ice
Frozen and waiting for fancy knives
To carve and curve and slice and splice
And muster a masterpiece
And create something with the semblance
Of life
Something with the semblance
Of not being dead a fucking gain.
Of not being .

Leave me in my place
With the lunatics wailing within walls
Singing their songs of the places and spaces
In minds held together with threads of madness
Snippets of borderline blue and manic maroon
Maybe a skein of schizoid stained in scarlet
To match the colour of my Maybelline lips
Deluded into thinking that
I may be beautiful.
Beautiful and broken.

Leave me in my place
With the demons plaguing my sacred inclinations
With Hell burning beneath my illusions of Heaven
With the angels weeping for a lost sister
With me weeping for the lost
With me weeping for me.

Long is the hour
When the darkness lives within
And the light resides without.
Long is the hour
When the fire within that has burned
Since I took my first breath
Becomes an ember
Becomes ash.

But it will pass.
It will pass.

© Sarah Drury 2019

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