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Lyric 08: Evil Dead by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 08: Evil Dead
It seems like now there's my nights I mean my body it's just too sliced I mean horror depths will be my end I am tired drained of all my living. Presentation. I front up now through false days A palimpsest, adept, is me my lies. You second rates don't know a thing Deceived you are by words I string. Level Down. I see the knife, there's sacrifice But it's a Jesus poor end my life Did I once look out for salvation Stupid, I thought to think it all. But words not so, it's all etched Scarred, inscribed bloodied lines That forced their way from a deep Fuck, memories I'm forced to keep. I tell you. My end it won't be a happenstance There'll be no it was mere chance Not me I tell you clear and loud My end will be just what I vowed. So to it. Living, it's just a hide from the hell My dark thoughts so hard to quell In the end the monsters they rise And to be truth its thought demise.
Lyric 7: Hidden Away by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 7: Hidden Away
There are memories hidden too deep But such are days, they tend to seep Through my everyday here's a mind With darkest depths I just can't find. As a child. Long time confined, seated defeated, For what reason, how could I know. But I was in trouble so they judged And being in trouble was never good. There was the alone waiting for it The end the same, spoke my name. But my mind does not seep enough. I state my young was not too rough. As a man. Trouble is the depths they're still here There's the now, child not disavowed. Mattress above me, I am well hidden What did I do that was so forbidden. Child escaped. Now I'm here in this outside hide Timeless time of hidden from all But after more space of I feel safe They find the my not known place. Adult now. Across my days there's just stay away Just a few memories from child days One or two but no more and too few We all know why, say the word abused. Advice given. Hey you, you must search them truths. Not me, I've no need of
Lyric 6: White Space by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 6: White Space
I was going to pen that this page was intentionally left blank because I am my mind, would have been clever think. For the masses. But no. So there's this white space In front me confronting me Wants words to state known Begging me to alter a real. I refer to the fringes of us What we make appearance true We've killed dead our words No more than character count. Twitter. How many characters? But a thought. What if words were the verge Of the there's so much more What if it were that our talk Limits us to what's not true. Look close through words used To language that might reveal We're caught in words absurd Need to side step our caught. Like there's this other sight A revelation might be alright To conjure being beyond a see That limits seems here to be. I talk here of mystic seeking. Poems, lyrics, reveal me words Elision, obsidian tell my days Beyond this we loathe malaise. A long time ago I saw it all World a million colours more Timeless time, really a real Troubled me
Lyric 05: There Care by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 05: There Care
Once I was a boy. There I am in a now here Strange land care near I don't know your love But there's some trust. These days. I mean now. As a man. I know I first felt safe In you're here's a space When we stayed returned From went somewhere else. Your tears spilled years When you held my hands That had not known touch In that far taken to land. You fought dead to be me Forged twilighted nights Took on the time to sleep Said I'm beside your side. Sad that I can't feel the Love that you felt for me But that's my life away I can't feel the pure you. Memories. We're in your greenhouse You teach me tender grow How I wish that I'd known You cared for seeds sown. Me. Seventeen or eighteen Years old. You gave me Marlboro dies Duty free and then I lied Don't smoke and I won't I'm shamed by that lie. I loathe my not knowing. My brother, no love for you He never knew your giving No, he complied their lies To make some funeral cash. Now I'm in my mid Twenties. How my brother denied
Lyric 04: Luke Warm by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 04: Luke Warm
It is tepid here in This strip lit room. And there's monsters Lurking shadow deep. I'm alone not known Seeking for a care, You know the nights Five years not right. Will someone save me From what's too true. Caress yes, you tried Then came their lies. The walls drip time And I fear the near. When water's drained And I'm not named. My cuts and confused Etched denial tattoos Mean that I'm alive That I've survived. But God have I cried Alone in how they lied. Here I am, yes I'm lost, So few memories true. Now it is like living Out the most kind of Strung out kill me kind Of self destructive life. How we all yearn for the Guilty what's the truth. We feel the confession Church part played days. But the fact is that We can not recall all The murdered us on the Jesus cross had enough. Surely we deserved what They did to our guilty Dirty your disgusting Not that you'll know. My wrists cut on the Right side of not die I am to old to be told To stop the blood loss. There's no
Lyric 03: There's Pain by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 03: There's Pain
Him. And the rain drank champagne said that now known man, still the same despite his fame. Her. My eyes are tears at what they'll do In those rooms where you're abused Stay safe, stay well and know I care And through your days you will fare. I gift you love. Come here dear soul, I'll save you yet, Please embrace my beating breast, Feel these words, they speak of love, There'll come a time you'll rise above. Now you're gone. Last night's done and now's the day My begging words they held no sway, The truths I spoke to keep you near All those pleas they would not hear. Me. How I've longed through my dark nights To find your truths that gave me fight I feel you now in these lost thoughts And I'm here through what you taught. But it's sad to say you weren't enough Because to speak, my life's been rough I've been caught in deep dark places Bleak and black and sans your graces. So here it is, these truths revealed You're not here, my fate it's sealed The drink and drugs, they're
Lyric 02: Blood Rain by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 02: Blood Rain
After all of these Alone lost years of Searching for The knowing To it all. I mean the seeking For the end of Our lied lives That have hidden horror For the sake Of remain sane. We know The suburban Middle class mores. It's just what we do. Nothing to see here. But let's look at How the opaque Has haunted us Across our lives. My obsidian friend Where are you know With your council. No not here, there, Anywhere. You are absent. I mourn your loss. You kept me straight Late night embrace. And so to the escape Of our days to forget The never to be erased. The hospitals ask me When I last fell. It seems like an odd I don't know why you Ask kind of question. But My head it's Crooked stitches Deep testament scars Of the blood rain. The fall focus has To do with how well We are. I laugh. Our memories [e]merge. And the lies of us Mean no part true To the creation of Us in this world. We got lost in that Enforced you're alone No one gives a Twilight damn. Now we're
Lyric 01: Found Words by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Lyric 01: Found Words
In the end I mean ultimately It remains the case For artists "us". Like me and you That we're consigned To the contradictory Deathly intent dying Nature of our souls. I mean there's a Living kind of lived Confusion to it all. There's an Odd who are we Question to our Still being around. I mean that we are Not known to Our being alive. I’m here where now I don’t know 5 AM. You’re an abstract Sort of who are you Siren by my side. To be not never Recalled to my mind Tomorrow or at no Time in the future. You will become a Nothing non-event. I mean never were In my life, nights. It is easier that way. I mean not admitting Such acts to myself. How I leave my bad Deeds in the lurch. Denying debauchery. I would offer up Our insights into What we’ve lost. In what world might We be [mis]understood For what was Ripped from our Too early lives. I would say “young”. We might seek To metaphor Our being towards Acceptance of This cruel world. To ease away The complicated History
Poem 90: The Soliloquy of Me [Part 2] by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 90: The Soliloquy of Me [Part 2]
It is my hope that I have not too far to go Perhaps cancer it will invade, kill me slow. But what a rotten way to go out, to exit life Never heard, my lost words, no one's believed In me. Note that I do not regret the loss of a maybe. I mean that I had a vision of future unfolded Of people changing from they were too moulded. Changing because of my words heard across years. So, there they were sycophantic sheep living. I tried to say does not have to be that wayed. Just think for a minute of a future of escape. My hiatus of self reflection. I digress and transgress my self understanding. A normal night for me is search for forgetting. For betting that I'll be dead through accident. I'll be excess alcohol my body should reject. Surely soon, the weak escaped will be upon me. I mean the suicide sort of idea as sorted all. Just to say direct we are talking of my death. But no, I keep waking in the morning as a time That defines when I should function as aligned With
Poem 89: The Soliloquy of Me [Part 1] by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 89: The Soliloquy of Me [Part 1]
It's as though you say to yourself over it. In the realization of what might have been your life. That you've wasted because a death beckons. It is being old and what it is you've told About yourself through your lie filled days. Yet, Here I am in my life's been paltry defined. By my odd collection of I've poorly rhymed. Not to mention And all the other writing lost to deterred By self doubt that's meant not been heard. And yet writing there is. These words that are all that I've seemed. And I wonder does it suffice for my meaning. Because How I hurt and the pain I must make real Through the blood it runs to make me feel. Not dead yet but should have been an often. Yet you see here I am. Still hoping for a disillusioned day dream. And not these days litany of I have so lied. I see and know myself my surfaces through And Hope is a dead dream of the Christian's hue. Not where I live, will never live, I'm despair. And yet The create it calls and
Poem 88: Dead I Am by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 88: Dead I Am
There was this time of oh I am dreamed Of what might be of what I saw seemed. The dream it did come true over a time All that I have ever meant to be ryhmed. I mean that I saw a possible. And then it came to pass and all was so I thought to me I'd be sated but came no. Free was not the case, I died some more. I mean to a degree Despite the house in middle of nowhere. Death it will always follow me my days No way out no matter how from a malaise. I mean that I've realized a rural dreamt But my perspective me it's self contempt. Here's my life self loathing, undeserving Psyches run free with I'm death unnerving. I say in the end ultimate there's not me Deaded I am and there won't be I'm freed. Hence it is so. Out of chaos a star is born, I have sworn To make myself more than what was my core. And such has been the case across my days. I've transformed myself to I'm transcended But still there's gutters, psyche intended.
Poem 87: Rural Escape by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 87: Rural Escape
In defence of thirty or so years Of being me with my hidden fears. I mean what if someone found out Just how much it is that I doubt. I am done with this bipolar being Looking now for what's a freeing. Or a dead I will be. The singularity of writing wrested The epiphany words are suggested. But the logos no longer suffices. You see I know the reside in gaps The elided where time it's lapsed. How I've always been this awayed From supposed real to I'm afraid. It is what happens in the surreal. But here I am now, I'm fathomed me I know the need is for to be free. To take this spaced of a creation And reject mundane for realization. So to a vision that's meant to be I mean what it is that I will see. Dante I'm done, not to be swayed Against the path that I've laid. To stay away from gutters of life To make my days more than sliced. I just need to clear what I'll see To come to now, to come space free. Sold my soul but the devil be done. Now there's my chance newly
Poem 86: The Ontology of Chaos by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 86: The Ontology of Chaos
There were these words philosopher true That out of chaos a star comes through. But I find myself now, I am torn as I a look At a life I've lived imbibing them books. I mean so many words have been written And read. Such was the search for my soul smitten. Oh the horror of my errored now ensconced. I see By the death of me day by day and dead I am the word inscribed in blooded red. What might it mean for me truth arrived? Only you and I know the warmth of it all Flowing. I revert to a sort of philosophical view. Logos of an age not yet discovered known. The unreasonable reasonable. This world, these worlds I mean I've seen All that's whated and what my life's been. The order of the disturbed and perturbed. And yet but I am done unto my death, such mine chaos To live day by day horizon not a crossed. The reason now I see clear know for sure That the chaos state it needed emerging. By me, by my surging and act of creation. Chaos not by natural but by a
Poem 84: Once A Year Man by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 84: Once A Year Man
Here I present my per annum statement The only time I'll choose to speaked In a one year goes by and it's lossed But we don't know and not be fathomed. I write to you all people that I know To declare my self centered stated me. A once a year statement to my selfish Disappearnced from a malformed world. It is like now these days I'll elide To a kind of desired die is me today. Funny, not funny no more, an ironic Me's still alive in a here and nows. Missives sent with a regret truthed Nietzsche bad my deeds in the lurch. The most troubling of a truths means I must die if I cannot be reconciled. And so the walls around are bleeding Dripping red of no more life's alive. I wonder drugs as a psyche sugggested Based on my lies and untruths to them. Psyche stupid you thought you knew me I hid my whole life from yours viewed. Did no one discern death it's arrived The purgatory that's been life's mine. So much in the way of illusioned years When I thought of destiny was
Poem 83: I'm Ashamed by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 83: I'm Ashamed
It is a "hushed" I must be quiet. You see there is a plan excited. Ending not far away, it's close. I mean, I see how the words they're here. They somehow came appeared. I know not how but now I am sure All is nought, it did dawn on me. I will Be still, slip away not noticed. That's the idea I announce here. And yes here's irony duly noted. But I Once was someone, now I'm done. The past. There's my history of enticing The kind of I attract so wrong. Because I made the mistake of I did long. Error absurd. That fatal thought to I'm normal. Never was and it won't ever be a Me. I curse my birth obsidian thoughts And feelings that are this shamed State of guttered soul, my abused. How I wish that I could bring an end.
Poem 82: Covid Conformity by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 82: Covid Conformity
Like there's this travesty of justice It's designed around here's a must us Comply and conform and play the games That make us all so that we're samed. The rule of conformity to the sheeped. I mean we bleat eat Antoinette's cake. Oh how we now exercise our freedomed. So passive excited for picnic thanks. For allowing us to do what was always The case before a mismanaged disgrace. I mean state of Covid that is control. Under the thumb of laws they do extol Us for being so staid kept us in line. Double jabbed, so your society's fine. You are a good and faithful citizen. We're keeping you safe and it's all so Justified in our eyes to lock you down For not conforming to a gestapo vision That we've planned from the beginning. People really . . . Can't you see your freedom's negated. Now surveillance is how you're rated. They lock you up for dissenting heard You don't agree with their true word. Means more justified police brutality. It's you're dead to a time was freedom. You exist
Poem 81: Interstice Statements by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Poem 81: Interstice Statements
Funny how I have unpacked myself to death With memories never meant to be it was me. Countries crossed where whores I've adored Then cultural sights, morning's too bright. Pictures they're hung of where I've been. Musicians and monks and all those seens. But not the ones that just weren't right. The where am I dawning, fuck this light. [Interstice statements] There's a woman, she lives in some ether Can't figure, I don't want to be with her. OK, so true of late I've left this world. But why check in to see if I'm alive now. Don't you know, I've never cared for you. You're just a signified state, girl same. I loathe you for your care caress future. In truth you want to save yourself and so You bring no reason to days I still live. Your in abstentia's through my pure will. Kind of like the whores who gave me all. But with them there was no loved furore. [End of interstice statements] So there's my past displayed and on view. A palimpsest me, wish so I might've died. If God
Story 30: Simple Truths by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 30: Simple Truths
For those with the eyes to see, the technologies of the future had been entirely predictable from the television series and blockbuster movies that had filled their lives. The first pocket sized mobile phones, for example, had not just resembled the communication devices from the early science fiction films. They had been absolutely identical. Smart homes, which had emerged slowly over time, had already been fully represented in futuristic movies. Homes with video intercom systems and with voice activated devices such as the lights and the television and with windows that revealed not the world outside but any image that one chose from a data
Story 29: Eternal Recurrence by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 29: Eternal Recurrence
The idea of the eternal recurrence is scattered throughout history as well as being articulated by Nietzsche in two of his books whilst also being included in the book of his notes, "The Will to Power" that his sister published after his death. Eternal recurrence. If taken seriously then it is, for some at least, a significant cross to bear because the theory posits that existence recurs in an infinite cycle as energy and matter transform over time. Thus, the life that we have lived will be lived over and over and over again. It will, to state the obvious, be lived eternally. We can imagine, as Nietzsche did, two reactions to this "test of on
Story 28: Spoken Words by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 28: Spoken Words
Peter stared at himself in his bathroom mirror and began to recite the mantras that were meant to free him for a life shackled to his somewhat deleterious mind. "I love living my life and being present in every moment always." Peter took a moment to let the words percolate in his mind. "I love being free and let go and let God with love, grace and ease always." The word "God" did not sit well with Peter but he had agreed with his therapist that he could employ the term at a push. "I love being present and letting go always." Very similar to the first affirmation and Peter wondered whether it was really necessary with respect to achieving an o
Story 27: Mrs. Andrews by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 27: Mrs. Andrews
Mrs. Andrews had a particular set of rules for the affairs in which she indulged, or trysts as she liked to call them, because there was nothing sordid about her indulgences. Rather, as a woman of impeccable taste, her liaisons were, first and foremost, carefully crafted aesthetic encounters with men whom she judged to be worthy of her company. These encounters which had, sequentially speaking, stretched into double figures over the years were also very carefully managed according to Mrs. Andrews set of rules. First and foremost, meetings would only take place once every two months and always at a location of her choosing, usually a five star
Story 26: Less Alone by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 26: Less Alone
Paul had, from a very young age, gorged himself on what might broadly be termed post apocalyptic, dystopian and cyber-punk movies along with Netflix series of a similar ilk. "Blade Runner", the original with Harrison Ford, had been his favorite movie and "Altered Carbon" had been his favorite Netflix series. He had also fully enjoyed the full range of the "Terminator" movies along with each of the "Matrix" films. Looking back at his viewing choices, Paul knew that the worlds had often been harsh and yet, at the same time, there had always been protagonists with a mission, a mission that was usually accomplished such that, for the most part, t
Story 24: King Kadrack by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 24: King Kadrack
"Here you are," said Uncle Arthur, presenting Roger with his birthday gift. Alison looked on enviously. It would not be her birthday for another six months and three days. "Thanks," said Roger, tearing at the balloon patterned wrapping paper. "What is it?" asked Roger, perhaps a little too abruptly. "It's a kaleidoscope," said Uncle Roger. "A what," said Roger. "A kaleidoscope," said Uncle Roger. "How do you turn it on?" asked Roger. Uncle Arthur laughed. "You don't turn it on. You put your eye to the hole and then you turn the cylinder," said Uncle Arthur. Roger pressed his eyes to the hole and turned the cylinder. As Roger rotated the cylin
Story 22: Saint Anselm by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 22: Saint Anselm
Anselm knew the truth about life. It was purgatory. Not metaphorically but literally. The inhabitants of the world were in purgatory. That place in between heaven and hell meant for expiatory purification. A place of extreme torment but not a place of permanent torment. The torment would end once the exiles had atoned for their sins. It was a mystery to Anselm why the rest of the world could not see the world for what it really was. One had only to look around. To consider. To reflect on the nature of the human condition. A condition that could only be described as tortuous. Anselm thought not just of the wars, the massacres, the murders, the
Story 21: Absent God by beingbipolar, literature
Literature
Story 21: Absent God
"You must have heard the argument that the only excuse for God is that he does not exist," said William. "I am familiar with the line of thought," said God. "Well the saying is far more problematic than it used to be," said William. "You see, it is all but impossible to use the word God these days. God. The word has so many associations with the male of the species. The only excuse for God is that he does not exist. We can no longer refer to he or to him. Feminist theology along with the absurdity of political correctness has ensured that God must be a goddess or in other cases be gender neutral. The only excuse for God is that God does not
Artist // Hobbyist // Literature
- June 6
- Australia
- Deviant for 9 years
- A place for my observations about th world.
- He / Him
My Bio
The title of my site should, I think, convey the matter is of primary importance in my life, at least in terms of the necessity of managing myself very carefully. As a secondary note I also have a dissociative personality disorder which means that, essentially, I have a complete inability to relate to either myself or other people on anything like an emotional level. I do not need to name this secondary condition. It suffices that I know that it is so.
You might think that the fact of my being bipolar, along with not being able to identify with any feelings that I might have, would speak to a certain dysfunctionality. Such is not the case. Rather I am, as my health professionals keep telling me, highly functioning. There is a singular reason for this fact. I have marshalled my formidable mind, exercised my inordinate will and directed myself across my days with a single teleological purpose in mind.
My aim - to cultivate what there is of my interior landscape in order to achieve an ever shifting balance, proportion and harmony across my days. In this respect I believe that I would refer to the aesthetics of my being in the world, to the kaleidoscopic harmony that is me. I have no care what other see, what they believe that they perceive when they look at me because what they see is not the case, not by a long way. I remain hidden from the world.
Favourite Visual Artist
None
Favourite Movies
He Never Died, Princess Aurora, Ghost Dog, The Night Comes for Us, 30 Days of Night, Train to Busan, Constantine, Gabriel,
Favourite TV Shows
Betaal, The Plagues of Breslau, Into the Night,
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Marianne Faithful, Dorie Previn, Annie Lennox, Mary Gauthier, Rodriguez
Favourite Books
A Fine Balance
Favourite Writers
Milan Kundera
Favourite Games
Duke Nukem 3D, Doom, Quake, Serious Sam, Shadow Warrior, Blood: Fresh Supply, Bioshock, Proteus
Favourite Gaming Platform
PC
Tools of the Trade
My mind
Other Interests
My awesome Yamaha Bolt motorbike