Hello Dr. Jekyll,

Doc, please help me, please let me confide.

You gave me advice that I did not abide.

And it’s honestly not because I didn’t try,

because all I could do is lay in bed and cry.

I feel you’re unreasonable, so grandiose,

and it doesn’t help me when all you do is boast.

And you tell me to splurge on all these expenses,

without any regard for the consequences.

Aimless anger, getting really dangerous.

Screaming and crying, no reason or purpose.

Help me out of this, I need some stability...

So please, doc...

tell me how to turn this hostility

into feelings of joy and tranquility.

Dr. Jekyll, I hope you can help me find

some kind of peace of mind.

Respectfully signed,

Mr. Hyde

PS, wait... Now I’m feeling fine.

Dear Mr. Hyde,

See? You’re perfect, you’re completely fine.

Your ugly feelings are just bipolar lies.

Doctors orders: "Ignore your cries...

All you need is some exercise."

Look at your muscles, look at their size,

you're walking, catching all the eyes.

Look at your brain, look at how wise,

making everyone else’s look pint-sized.

Just leave your house, it’s easy enough...

You know that when they see you

they'll think you’re hot stuff.

Get piss drunk, you will be fine.

Go find some coke, do more than one line.

Spend all your dough, it will be okay...

because in money you'll be showered,

and endlessly admired,

for all the smart things that you say.

Your meds are filled, ready at the pharmacy...

But don't worry,

and enjoy your frivolity.

Because you have complete and total control

to pull your own self out of this hole,

and the natural ability

to make yourself well.

It's easy to maintain stability...

Just avoid your personal hell.

Sincerely signed,

Dr. Jekyll

I don’t believe that hell is opposite a heaven,

or a prison for sinners,

where we're punished for trangessions.

Nor is it some natural force, or any kind of entity

that enforces a moral script relevant to all humanity.

We all carry our own purgatories,

billowing flames fueled by our tramatic stories.

Each of us house our own demons,

infiltrating the brain,

plaguing it with afflictions.

Sometimes my demon holds knife against my skin,

leaving trails both thick and thin.

Drowning me in the red rivers that fall by my toe,

my happiness and self-respect in their flow.

My bipolar is my hell, it's gates won't let me go.

Paint the world gray on a sunny day.

Lack of serotonin, lack of melatonin

makes me crave that oxytocin.

But from loved ones I abstain,

and therefore cannot retain

the love they want me to obtain

to heal my godforsaken brain.

My hell is heaven,

masked by depression.

My hell is not a place

illuminated by flames,

but an intangible space

where on myself I place all blames.

I am not myself, I'm full of spite

saying things that can cut you like a knife.

To my loved ones for this I apologize.

But please, I just want you to realize

that when I look at you with angry eyes

I still love you, these words are just a bunch of bipolar lies.

Show me a mood chart, sad to happy, scales 1 through 10

Never do I feel past 3, and never under a 7.

Indiscriminate of time, length and location,

so unpredictable, I never know when I'll feel alleviation.

This is what my hell looks like.

A force that's taken over my body

controlling my life like the third reich.