Pulse

Like stampeding miniature elephants

Pushing from behind your lips,

Pressure builds until it feels

Like your mouth is going to explode.

Your mind morphs and stretches,

Pulsing blood flows like a river

Being released from a dam,

Until it ruptures in an eyeball.

This is hypomania, with all

The glitz and glitter,

With the impulses throbbing,

Screaming to be released,

Flexing at the heavy chains

Of shame, guilt and anxiety.

The conscience is like a cowboy,

Riding atop the raging bull,

Pulling at the reigns,

Wriggling across its back,

Struggling with all his might,

To reel in and wrestle control

Of the maddened beast.

Oh, the stress of it all.

To burn the wax of insanity

From the candle of truth,

To purify, to disentangle, to free.

But the answer, alas,

Is to become one with the beast,

To strive to hold on tightly,

Until its energy is spent;

Or, to spring off like a grasshopper,

Surviving the maelstrom

Until another day.

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Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger, Advocate

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