TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Posts tagged “Racing Thoughts

Rapid Cycling

Patterns of the microcosm
echoed in the macrocosm
vibrating thoughts
no meditation
lots of frustration
can’t calm down
do the Hong Sau
Yogananda method
the only hope
in this mind
doing 120 mph
in a 35 mph zone

 

time soon for sleep
frogs singing
a pre-dawn high
drained at noon
rapid cycling
twilight now
back to racing
raving
raging mind
need gentility
humility
quietude
to feel awe
to ponder
hit “Pause”

love in the afternoon
a natural anti-
depressant
sent sight soaring
in space
seeing patterns
everywhere
echoing symphonically
in noisy ears
the hum of quiet
seems too loud
flashing lights
status migrainous
with all over
crawling feeling
“not-theres”

stop I say
stop I pray
stop the way
the world spins
hurling in space
the race
the pace
exhaustion
please
take this body
in your arms
work your charms
on this alarm-
ing state
with alacrity
the paucity
of peace
needs mending

Oh evening
send hope
for ending
these frantic antics
quell the panic
break the day
and bring on
the dawn
of dreams


Overloaded Circuits: a Poem for World Bipolar Day, March 30, 2014

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I’m in somnia

with jackhammer brain

a buzzing mind

a humming with emotions

thoughts and pictures

memories of joys

lost to death

spirits close to my heart

seemingly worlds away

guilt, loss and happiness

sickness and death

as well as

breathtaking beauty

a bedfellow with

gnawing worries

and gnashing nerves

fleeting images from films and

music playing at high speed

in the library of my mind

voices of today, yesterday and

fears of tomorrow

vying for an ear

asking me to listen

to them all

all at once

a cacophony of sounds

in the humming silence

of the specter-filled

haunting darkness

with fearsome death dangling

its loathsome threats

before my darting eyes

afraid not for myself

but of losing him

as he lies beside me

breathing noises

breeding worry, sorry

dashing thoughts of love, passion, doubts

a scarily-still lump beside

insomniac-hyper-racing-mind

manic me

finally arising out of

maudlin months

of dismal darkness

and deep, dark despair

when death smelled sweet to me

*

I get out of bed

to lay my face

upon the windowsill

to gaze at the mystery sky

full of twinkling stars

glittering to the rhythms

of the pulsing universe

my only hope for some

semblance of somnolence

my only chance for peace.

For info on my Bipolar memoir, please see: http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html


Mania Free-flow

This is the mind in mania, a sampling of the free-flow of racing thoughts and rhyming words that occur.  On first glance, the meaning may seem random but in the context of the memoir, themes of paranoia and the flip side of mania, depression, are apparent.

I catch the Number Four bus.  The bus is crowded.  The motor in my head starts racing again.

IT’S PANIC.  AND THEY’RE PUSHING.  PUSHING AND SHOVING.  AND THE STREET LIGHTS ARE FLASHING— GREEN VENOM/BLOODY TEARS ALTERNATELY ON THE RAINDROP WINDOWS OF THE BUS.  AND THAT WOMAN OVER THERE IS STARING, DAMNED BITCH!  AND THAT HAIRY MAN— THE EYES ARE PROBING AND LOCKING.  IT’S SHOCKING.  THE MIND MOTOR’S GOING FASTER AND FASTER STILL.  NERVE ENDINGS FIRING.  AXONS AND DENDRITES SYNAPSING ALL OVER THE GODDAMNED PLACE.  AND THE STREETS CRAWL BY.  FLIP FLOP.  THE CAMERA SHOP.  GOTTA MOP THE CAMERA SHOP.  FLIP FLOP.  THE BUTCHER SHOP.  CHOP.  CHOP.  RAW MEAT DROPS AT THE FEET OF FAT FLESH.  TICK TOCK.  THE ROUND, WHITE INSTITUTIONAL CLOCK TICK-TOCKS TO THE CHOP CHOP OF THE BUTCHER SHOP.  A SEAT.  SIT DOWN.  CLOSE THE EYES.  YEAH.  THAT’S BETTER.  NICE AND EASY DOES IT.  TRANQUILITY.  SENILITY.  DEBILITY.  THE MIND MOTOR’S RACING.  THE HANDS ARE SHAKING.  GRAB HOLD OF THE BAR.  YOU’LL GO FAR IF YOU GRAB HOLD OF THE BAR.  KEEP THE EYES CLOSED AND GRAB HOLD OF THE BAR.  THE BLACK HOLES IN SPACE TAKE THE PLACE OF THE RAY OF HOPE WHICH LIES LIKE A DOPE BURIED UNDER THE FALLEN STARS.  A MURKY MIASMA AT THE BOTTOM OF THE UNIVERSE. REHEARSE THE HEARSE.  ANOTHER STAR IS DYING AND TRYING TO REST AT BEST IN THE BOTTOM OF FOREVER.  AND PEOPLE ARE LEAVING.  AND THERE’S MORE SPACE.  AND I’M DOWN IN THE VALLEY OF THE DESPAIRING DAMSELS, SITTING WITH THE DOTTED, SPOTTED DALMATIANS, IN THE PURPLE PANTRY PUDDLES OF THEIR PISS.

From Chapter 2 of my Bipolar/Asperger’s Memoir.  For more information see: 

http://www.amazon.com/Eye-locks-Other-Fearsome-Things-ebook/dp/B007TOOF56/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363364264&sr=8-1&keywords=eye-locks

Also available on Barnes & Nobles Nook, iBooks and Smashwords