Bpd Poems Novels & Stories

Vincent's poem thus; When I too long have looked upon your face, Wherein for me a brightness unobscured Save by the mists of brightness has its place, And terrible beauty not to be endured, I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark. I could no longer fight this battle with myself and Jeffrey.

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.

(don't) I wanted to apologise for the short chapters lately, just been so so busy But I promise you all that would soon change ,I'll probably post like 2-3times a day So just bear with me for a while okay? And if you liked those poetries I posted and searched for days and night (I just googled it but what the heck) Here are is one I found you'll really love Fragment of a Ballad by Elizabeth Siddal Many a mile over land and sea Unsummoned my love returned to me; I remember not the words he said

“They’re about private wounds.” Franc nodded, understanding etched into his features. “But shared healing.” They curated a small chapbook: “Places Silence Shaped Us.” Thirty pages. Each with a poem, a sketch, a truth. They didn’t distribute widely. Just copies in the studio, tucked among supplies and leaning against chipped mugs filled with dried brushes. One guest read the poem about Yam’s panic attack, fingers trembling slightly as they left a note: “Your chaos matched mine. I don’t feel like a puzzle piece anymore.”

She grabbed the bandages that she had originally wanted, as she led him towards his couch across from his bed in the grand room. Tami gently gripped his hand as she slowly wrapped the bandage around his busted knuckles. Silently with her eyes, she asked him to talk, and Raphael understood quite clearly what she wanted. He hung his head with a deep sigh before he began. He might as well tell her. "I-I have BPD," he finally said, almost in a whisper. Her hands paused as she glanced up at him. "Borderline Personality Disorder?" He nodded. "Well, I actually have Quiet BPD. It's different because, well..." He didn’t quite know how to explain it, but luckily for him, Tami knew it all.

As Dylan slowly emerged from his depressive state, he revealed the core of his BPD, the result of parental emotional abandonment and manipulation, leading Anna to realize that the monster was merely a frightened boy shaped by a cruel, predetermined fate. The day after the explosion was filled with the oppressive silence of a fragile truce. Dylan woke up guilty and ashamed. The memory of his rage was hazy, but the feeling of having hurt Anna was crystal clear. He found her in the kitchen, making coffee, her movements tired but deliberate. He stood in the doorway, unable to meet her gaze. "I'm going to find another place to stay," he mumbled, running a hand over his unshaven jaw. "You deserve

|•| ANDRÉ BAUDELAIRE |•| The recession of the moon into its dark shell in the clouds, mirrored the incessant chip at my soul for the past few days. It seemed as if something inside me was getting chopped off as each day went by and I recoiled from the one girl who made me feel so alive.

“So . . . you been on meds for months, bottling up all the bad things—the headaches and hallucinations—also pretending your son was alive somewhere, not dead. And tonight, you walk in here, med free, and all those bad things come roaring back out cause they been stored up . . . ” “There’s a poem,” Andrew whispered. “By William Blake. ‘The Poison Tree.’ About nursing hidden anger. And of it, Blake says: ‘I told it not; my wrath did grow.’ So all these things inside me . . . have been growing? Into what, I wonder? And then the following couplet reads: ‘And I watered it in tears, Night and morning, with my fears.’” Andrew continued, “It’s not my son’s ghost or spirit or poltergeist, or whatever

The audience gets quiet, waiting to hear what I’m going to say. “This poem is called Unapologetically Me. We go through different things in life that cause us pain. We have people in our lives, who make it their mission to break us or destroy us, but we are stronger than that. So, I dedicate this to all of us who have ever been through heartache and survived.” Unapologetically Me By Lotta Patterson © 2021 You tried to break me, But I’m unbreakable. You tried to shake me,

I have reached a point where I no longer desire anything because I have everything I have reached a point where I can no longer move anymore because I moved everywhere I have became a pain to my flesh and a torn to my loins because of the curse I wear around like a cloak I am a Beast. I still don't understand how the old man's poem relates to Nigerian-Biafran war. He must be really sick in the head.