Something Pure

I am tired and I just want
something pure, something
beautiful to burst
from the filth of this sickness,
this tragedy that is
devouring my mind again.
And all at once I feel
nothing but the shriek
of my soul being
ripped from its bones.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Another Season

The shadows are making
their way to my door again,
and my stoop has been painted
in grey, but I know that soon
the grey will give way
to the blackness and I will
spend another season crushing
bricks and sprinkling salt
in every corner of my
fragile mind.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Unbalanced

I have God
in my words
and the devil
in my ear,
and a sister,
who keeps telling me
to find my magic.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Good Girls Are Always Found

I have broken my own bones,
splintered them
and placed them into bags,
dozens of bags of me,
and I have thrown them
from the windows of speeding cars
in hope that you will find me
after the crash, somewhere
where the good girls would never go,
littered between back alleys
in the dark parts, the places where
the good girls are always found.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

A Collection of Madness and Magic

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My mind is light and dark and always uneven,
a rest stop for a long line of weary travellers
and mischief makers; a home to thousands
of manic spiders spinning sticky webs
of dark delusions against the back of my eyes.
My ears itch with the whispers
of hyper charged bits of paranoia.
My throat burns from the speed
at which I swallow the rants
and raves of transient thoughts,
and I am able to breathe again.
My blood boils with electricity,
ferocious enlightenment kicking
through the walls of a dead heart
and I am alive again.
A collection of madness and magic,
I am a place where art and illness collide.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

A Pocket Full of Mania

I have sidled up to demons
and whispered them to sleep
but these fiery angels
in my pocket care nothing
for decent conversation.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Marshmallows and Misunderstandings

If my mind
should ever
eat all of me,
please remember
the girl
I tried to be.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Truth About Living On Borrowed Time – Peter Olsen

If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide and/or self-injury, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at (800) 273-TALK (8255).

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I’m not good right now
I’m not well at all

But here I am!
Right over here
I’m still alive

Beating the odds
As I’m holding on by a thread.
Walking a tight rope 50 feet from the ground wishing the wind would blow me off
Onto some rich douchebag’s BMW.
Splat.
Fall down go boom.

And yet within this self-destructively suicidal wish….
I hope that a magical safety net would fly from out of nowhere to catch me as I fall.
And I wish someone was there.
Anyone would give a fuck enough about me to hold me as I break the fuck down.

But yet here I am
Alone
Me against the world
“Fighting the good fight”
Trying every day to walk away from the darkness toward the light

Functionally suicidal I guess
As I try to live a “normal life.”

I still go to work every day
I pay my bills
I file my taxes
I write these blog posts

I try to remain as hopeful as I can.
But I’m crumbling inside.
I’m drowning
In a sea of self-doubt and regret
I’m sucked into the unrelenting quicksand of my blackened mind
Choking.
Suffocating.

I continue to willingly live with the darkest recesses of my poisoned mind.
The darkness is slowing overtaking the light.
In here everything stays the same
And nothing will ever fucking change.

I can’t fucking take this shit anymore!

So the eternal question still remains:
Should I stay or should I go?

The continually running juxtaposed narrative of wishing I was dead
Yet by finding too much beauty in the world I’ve made at least one excuse to live.

The bitter pill of truth says
I am just as worthless as I was when I was at age 16.
The sweetness of the nectar of lies says
I can survive to fight another day.

This is the co-dependent duality of my fucked up so-called life.

I don’t know how I’ve made it this far.
I don’t know why I’m still alive.

But I am.
I’m still here.

I keep going.
I keep moving.
I keep living.

And I’m still fucking standing.

I’m not sure if I’ll make it to age 65.
I’m not sure if I’ll make it to this summer
I’m not even sure if I’ll make it to tomorrow

Living on borrowed time in this temporary shell of skin and bone and blood.
Functionally suicidal I guess.

But I can try
To stay alive
To live to see another day

I have to try
To stay alive
So I can see another sunset
Or see anther sunrise.

I need to try
To stay alive
So I won’t die.

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After graduating from Washington State University with a B.A. in Humanities, Peter M. Olsen found his true passion and became a blogger. He has written for Feminine Collective, Rachel Thompson, and Hasty Dawn Words.

Peter is also a mental health advocate dedicated to helping people with mental illness.

In his free time, Peter is in search for the greatest taco trucks in the Pacific Northwest. Peter is a raver and PLUR warrior, video game junkie, coffee addict, and an all-around pretty cool guy. Trance, house, and techno music keeps Peter a very happy guy.

Peter lives in the greatest city on Planet Earth. The Emerald City…Seattle, Washington

My Manic Mind – WBD 2017

I wrote My Manic Mind a couple of years ago to explain what mania feels like for me. I tried to write it in a way that everyone, bipolar or not, could understand and possibly relate to.

My Manic Mind has been featured on Feminine Collective and was published in their gorgeous book, Raw & Unfiltered, and I would like to share it again for everyone who follows the site and may not have had the chance to read it.

Happy World Bipolar Day, everyone. Welcome to My Manic Mind.

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I have bipolar disorder and sometimes, well sometimes, I think I’m blessed because of it. Now I’m not trying to glamorize mental illness; trust me when I tell you I’ve been to Hell and back so many times I have frequent flier miles. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t miss some of the more intense moments I’ve lived.

You see with bipolar disorder there is what I like to call the sweet spot. The sweet spot lies between hypomanic and manic, and for me, it is glorious. When I hit the sweet spot colours are brighter, sounds are crisper and the energy around me sizzles. I am on fire. I am filled with creativity and brilliance. My body races to catch up with my mind, and I move at warp speed. What takes other people three days to accomplish I can get done in a mere twelve hours.

I am awake. My senses are heightened, and I laugh. My husband touches me, and my skin comes alive. My children are in hysterics trying to catch up with me; life is sweet. We are good, and we are happy, and we are love.

As my husband turns to me and says, “Baby, it’s time to take your emergency meds, you’re going up too fast, you know what will happen if you don’t” a sad smile crosses his face. He loves this Nicole, everyone does, but she never stays in the sweet spot for long, she goes higher than that, and it’s hard to bring her back down again.

“Before your meds kick in, please tell me what it feels like for you.”

He kisses me softly on the forehead and leaves me alone with my laptop.

Imagine if you will, the fair has come to town. Take in all of the sights and sounds, from the toddlers crying to the pre-teens laughing. They’re running and trying to cut in line at the ride that promises the biggest thrill. You smell the deep fried donuts, french fries and cotton candy. You hear the carnies yell out, “Bet you can’t make this shot, three for a dollar, step right up.” Every sound is amplified, from the creaks of the rusted gears on the Ferris wheel to the poor kid who is puking behind the fortune teller’s trailer. Everything is ALIVE. You look right and then left, which way do you go? It’s a maze of debauchery and adrenaline.

Chaos and pleasure are hidden around every corner. You want it all, but where do you start? You have only purchased enough tickets to ride two times, which will you choose? Do you spend your tickets in the funhouse, reflecting on your reflections? This one is too small. This one is too big. This one is just right, and it’s creepy as sin. You’ve seen your soul in the mirror at a circus, and it scares the hell out of you. Move on. Something has to take the sting away. One ticket left. You clutch it as if it were your payment to the boatman on the River Styx. Anxiety starts to swell. The noise is becoming too much and something inside of you has built up, you don’t understand what it is, all you know is that it needs to be released.

All you can focus on is the feelings that you must get out of you. There is no talking this down; there is only a primal instinct to shred every sense of dignity you thought you had.

The noise and the lights beckon you to stay, join us, and partake in this pleasure. Lose yourself in the rush. Forget all of your worries and everything that ties you down and just fucking LIVE. Take the feelings inside of you as far as you possibly can before you burst and shatter into thousands of unfulfilled dreams and promises. Find your release, and find it fast, they are closing the gates in mere minutes.

You follow the nervous screams and maniacal laughter until you see it, the main attraction. The rollercoaster is boasted as being the fastest and scariest ride to come to town. You trip trying to make your way to it as fast as you can. All pleasantries are off. You’ll push small children out of your way because you know what that rush feels like. You’ve turned into a junkie now; you need the escape. The release.

As you make your way to your seat, you push past the people that refuse to ride in the front. What’s the point if you can’t stare into the abyss on your rapid cycle back to the ground? You buckle yourself in, front row seats, but not too tight though, the rush of potential death gets you off. The attendant comes by to make sure you’re secure.You fight the urge to spit in his face and tell him to fuck off.

You’re pissed off at the time it takes for every other sucker to get belted in. This is your ride, and they have neither clue nor any business being on it. You run this coaster, and it moves when you say so.

The climb up the tracks feels like a sad sort of foreplay to you. You hear the gears churn and the squeals of the unimportant people who’ve hitched a ride behind you. When the coaster reaches the peak, it stops, and your heart starts to pound. You are so out of sync with everyone here, but in tune with everything that matters. For the briefest of moments, you are free. The air is thinner, and there is nothing above you but sky and possibilities. If you unhooked your seat belt right now you know for certain that you could fly.

You raise your face to the Heavens and take a deep breath; the anticipation of the plunge is ecstatic.Raise your arms and feel your ass lift off the seat. Like lightning, the coaster dives into its decent. The speed is finally a match for all of the thoughts that race through your mind; it overtakes and for a second there is stillness. The quiet ecstasy of something that is more powerful than you, and it is delectable. You’ve met your match, and you urge it on, faster, harder, DO NOT STOP.

The coaster whips and weaves over its tired and worn track. People scream and even cry, begging for it to stop. You shut them out while focusing on the way the wind howls through your hair. The impulse to keep riding swells to a radiant compulsion. Before it is half over, you are devising a way to get more tickets. You can’t even be satisfied with the thrill of the ride. All you can think about is how you will be able to make it possible to ride again, and again, and again…

You are finally free. There is something more powerful than you, and the innate instinct to harness all of it overtakes every sense you have. You are no longer here to release anything. You are here to devour and discard until you finally feel full.

There is no end to this fair, this ride, and this hunger; there is only that swift decent into oblivion.

©Nicole Lyons 2015

I Live Days

I live days in defeat,
beaten down
by my own mind
and the lies
it whispers to me.
But I have learned
to put my feet up
and rest easy
on those days.
For without that respite,
I could never dance
wildly when I live days
in the sunshine
of my victories.

© Nicole Lyons 2017