Galerie Art-QEIPS

Unframed: My Bipolar Art

Some days, the sky is painted gold,
And every breath is brave and bold.
I color wide outside the lines—
The world alive, my thoughts divine.

Then darkness folds in quiet storms,
A grayscale mood, no vibrant forms.
My hands grow slow, the pages blur—
The hues retreat, the edges stir.

Bipolar lives in highs and lows,
In bursts of light and undertows.
But art—she walks both paths with me,
No need to prove, no need to be.

When mania spins its restless thread,
I write until the stars turn red.
Poems rush like winds unplanned,
Ideas blooming out of hand.

Then in the hush of heavy days,
When even sunlight seems to graze,
I find a coloring book and sit—
Just shade by shade, a steady wit.

No deadlines, rules, or judgment eyes,
Just swirling ink beneath wide skies.
I lose myself in mindful pace,
And find a calm, forgiving space.

I don’t create to show or sell—
I make to feel, to sit, to dwell.
In every line, a breath, a choice—
A way to soften inner noise.

There is no rubric for my soul,
No need to paint some perfect role.
Art meets me where my cycle bends,
A quiet space that never ends.

In mania, it gives me form—
A rhythm through the reckless storm.
In lows, it waits with open hands,
A canvas full of softer lands.

I write because I’m still alive.
I color just to feel the drive.
And when the world feels far or near,
I turn to art—it keeps me here.

Not cure nor cure-all, not a cage—
But how I turn each jagged page.
Bipolar is a map I chart—
But healing starts through making art.

© Ariella Pardo. 2025. All Rights Reserved.

Turn on the lights

Did you see that? Is this real?

Turn on the lights to my dark mind,

and tell me what’s inside the ruminating room.

seagulls yell at me.

creepy singing in the stairwell.

death glares at me.

hell falling down the crack.

that car follows me.

floors morphing into maps.

no. not real. none of it.

Now cross it.

The bridge to reality,

just mind the gap.