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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

The art of being manic

Submitted: July 30, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 30, 2018



I gauge chaos by its violence.

It is unsettling to concede but sometimes,

I relish its onset.

It is often such a change of pace,

to the mundane circles I make every other day.


I feel like colors that an artist cannot name.

A carcass for the flies,

black and red clash of innards versus outards

(is that even a word?)

Carrion for the vultures,

roadkill rotting slowly off the highway.

Hot on the bottom

cold on the top.


I am cancer



growing in the dark,

the scum beneath flesh,

where soap cannot reach.


I am lies…

where I lie

burning away promises,

on the gold-trimmed scaffold of infidelity.

I am sober

I am yours

I am…


I am…




Celebrating the empty victory

of a broken heart,

avenged yet still scorned.

Damp sliver of silk pillowcase

between teeth,

on the bed of an ex-lover’s


I exist…though tenuously…

the color of nothing.

Nothing at all.


In the medical world,

they call this phase “manic.”

In the poetry world,

hungry men like to pen entire stanzas

about girls that suffer the way I suffer.


I don’t even look sick.

I am head-spun and twist-tongued and

restlessly drawn—

a hectic pencil sketch in a dusky bedroom.

And that is where I have always felt

most at home.

So scribble and fashion me

a crudely-drawn reality,

of the grayscale where I belong.


© Copyright 2020 AmandaxLewis. All rights reserved.

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