Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

The flowers were blooming again. A month ago, I would have thought it was beautiful. Now it just looks away. Like it belongs to someone I am not the person I was anymore. The poison changed me. Being betrayed changed me. Being alone changed me. There are still times when my thoughts are cloudy. Times when my memories are all mixed up. Times when I still hear voices that're not there. Those times are getting fewer and farther between. Every day, I am becoming more like myself. That is what really scares me.

She read the poem on the topmost page: Blurry eyes, in a haze, Cry silently near the window, Go without speaking for days, Written words are all that remain. What did I do wrong? You call me a disgrace. Sleep with pretty women, perfect bodies Yet you dare show me that face? I sit by my lonesome, Never a hair out of place, Temptation walks by, You get in the way. Dismay, disarray, I seek comfort, The warmth of a stranger's arms,

A sharp gasp escaped my lips as I winced in response to the sudden surge of pain. "No one and nothing should ever hurt you, except for me." Does he have a bipolar personality or what?

They open the new submissions, journals, sketches, coded dreams, solar poems, sky-written vows. They place them inside. Then they bow their heads. Not in grief. But in reverence. Because they know: The fire is not in the pages. It is in the choice to write them. So I keep burning. Through drought and war. Through joy and birth. Through quiet revolutions that look like hugs, and wild ones that sound like protests. Every time someone chooses compassion over control… I spark. Every time a young girl dares to say, “I have something to say”…

Blue lay beside Damian, her eyes dark and hollow, the weight of her past etched into the lines of her face. It was during these moments, when her BPD episodes consumed her, that she found herself compelled to share the memories she had long kept hidden. "I guess you could say I had a rough childhood," she began, her voice devoid of emotion, if She was reciting a script rather than sharing her innermost thoughts.

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84 and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

"There's a poem there I'm going to Recite it." Bryan looked hesitant, he opened the book and gazed back at me. "In loneliness, I find my home Where shadows dance, and darkness roams My heart is empty, my soul is worn For I am alone, with no one to call my own My mother died, and my father blamed Me for her death, with a heart so ashamed I wrote this poem, to cope with the pain Of being alone, with no one to love again I had my grandmother to rely on So I pray every night for her to live long

Linda asked Bianca for a small mirror to check her neck. Sure enough, there was a deep red mark on her neck, self-inflicted from broken glass. Without saying a word, Linda lay down quietly, staring blankly at the ceiling, seemingly trying to digest what had happened. Bianca consoled her, telling her that bipolar disorder is not a rare or incurable illness, and as long as she takes her medication on time, she can manage the condition well and lead a completely normal life.

In the school, when Lauren and Daphne were still chatting excitedly, a handful of mud fell from the sky and landed on the two of them. "AHH!" The two of them hurriedly stood up, shaking off the sand. .... .... Do you know a life of loneliness and one filled with pain, living a life with nothing to gain, Surrounded by darkness, overwhelmed with shame. A life without peace with no one to blame. Do you know of a place unseen, A place that holds only shattered dreams, A place filled with sorrow with no end in sight, I am given this gift each and every night. Do you know of a place so cold,

A few times, I've woken up to a paper next to me with a sketch or poem on it. The sketch is of a rose shaped like a heart. It's truly beautiful. I smile at the sketch and then go to the poem. I want to cling to you Hold onto your body Not release you for a moment As life becomes a tsunami Threatening to drag me away from you Drowning me in the darkness While holding you in the light Burry me underground while You stand above it Don't let go As you're the reason to fight To survive In this world That tries to break me