It’s Halloween. I’m feeling very spooky tonight—though less like the witch I’ve been alluding to in previous posts and more like a ghost. I’m a little worried I’m on the edge of another manic episode. 

I’m determined not to require medicine. I know it can be done with the help of regular exercise and a good diet, and I was told I have a fairly temperate case of bipolar disorder. I know it can be done and I want to get there.

I’m very fortunate to have all the support in the world. I went to my family’s house with my boyfriend tonight and we carved pumpkins, ate chili, and drank warm, spiced apple cider while listening to “spooky” music. The theme from “Phantom of the Opera” came on the Pandora playlist and I was transported to an earlier time of my life when I was utterly obsessed with that musical. The throwback was welcome—the tradition was nice. I am seated in the “niceness” of tonight. I am ready to tackle tomorrow.

Here’s another poem I wrote in the middle of the night a few days back. I can hear a somewhat elaborate piano part for it in my head, but I’m not sure how to give it life. Need to fearlessly approach the piano. The tune is flirty and irreverent with a little bit of obvious dissonance which resolves rather simply. The interlude is flowery and rich and flowing. It’s called “Cherub.”


Perfect little cherub, wingin’ in the house of God

Are ya happy to live? Are you dying to be gone?

Down from your high walls—the plaster there’s so thick

Made without sex organs, well that’s just a dirty trick.

Grandmothers love you: “Well she’s such an easy-going boy”

Housewives call on you, want to use ya like a toy

Cowboys resent you, from behind their deep moustaches

But they’re just dust to dust, ashes unto ashes.

Still you can fly, you bring music into life,

You’re the portrait of love.

Shoulders draped in silk, drinking honey and milk

You strum divine songs above…

So why the bow and arrow? What on earth you compensatin’ for?

Adorned in garlands of gold, how could you ever ask for more?

How could you ask for more?

How could you ask for more?

Little frustrated whore,

Don’t you worry, you’ve got God in your backdoor.

Published by Hannah

Just yer average girl next door.

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