Inks, Charcoal and cheap white pastel.
The paper may have been grey or brown to start with. It was very thin and also crappy.

I wrote a song around the time I drew this. I think.
It’s got similar stuffspilled on the words.

It is… passionate… here:

There’s a girl asleep on my window ledge.
She must be cold, and while she sleeps she cries.
I leaned against the glass
Raven’s wings – beating the backs of my eyes.
For the space of a cigarette,
I came inside and found her.
In a blue dress in my bath, filled with black water, and clover.
I dressed her up in a black coat
And she looked up in the dark.
Like a child Madonna,
Only covered in scars.

Too many DRINKS
Too many BONGS
Too many black and bitter SONGS.
And don’t you THINK
It’s time to put the madman in the madhouse
Where he belongs.

Bathing at your closed wet lips.
Behind a lace of smiles.
Playing poker with some other rats
And making faces
At the blind.

Halloween’s a good day to be born
When you start off a little weird.
You know you’re going to end up
Making cocktails out of rats tears.
Making cocktails
Out of rats…. Tears

Cynicism, this passion, your apathy and my past
I burned my books, my letters, and my chance.

Cynicism, dispassion, apathy and lies
I burned my books, my letters and my eyes.


The top of this piece is wavy etc because it is torn. it is torn because it grew mold on it and because the paper rotted; in the corner of the room where i lived – the rain…

I sold it recently to a neurologist in denver, whom I had not met.
He told me that every time he saw it, he cried.

He paid far more than I asked for it. He has chronic bipolar just like me.

I drew it… well. drunk starving had scurvy self-harming in and out of mental hospitals. but so much more fierce than that I FOUGHT i always FOUGHT.

this, however, is the truth of right now:

I’m still trying to write, and to paint when I can.
I am not getting better.

I am not.

However the extremities of bipolar seem to have stilled in the torrent of pain.

I don’t do very much; there is little I can do. I read. I play puerile games. I read. I read and read.

I do not go out apart from to the shops when needed or to the doctors and the chemist. I stare at others performing simple tasks with simple ease with something like awe.

I have come to understand that my quality of life is in many ways far better than it was when I spent eight months of each year in despair.

The biggest improvement of course is that the absence of psychotic depressive episodes means that I am not going to die by my own hand.


Is an improvement.

But the pain… ah well. It goes on. Endlessly.

The hardest, most intimate agony is that it denies me the ability to work. I cannot. I fail.

I fail.

I am very lonely. Sinn is sick with her own difficulties; which she keeps carefully from impinging upon my life.

This is too dark to send to everyone.

I will try again.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Perhaps I will have a blissful, calm day. And not be sick.

I am sick. I am sick… Too often. Too much, I think. I… do not know what else to do.

I have applied every extremity of thought and action.

It is my way. I have learned so much about what is wrong with my brain and how very broken it is.

Understanding and the action driven by its gifts has made some small difference. The painkillers I take work enough for me to… sit still and exist.

They are all fairly mild. Anything opiate based does nothing. I don’t know why.

No one knows… no one knows why any of this happened. The professor of neurology, the neuro-surgeon, the pain specialist, the psychiatrist, the pharmacologist, the gp. All are at a loss as to why my mind changed, why my brain turned on itself with pain in lieu of madness.

Some suggest and guess, prevaricate intellectually or describe in detail.

My psychiatrist believes that the relationship with Amy was the final impetus, causing an alteration in the way the mutated brain presented; with pain.

I disagree.

But we both… Guess.

I am so tired. I am so very tired all the time. The distress has become a constant. It is extant in the way that the madness never could be.

I have to go to bed.

I have to… tomorrow I must, I must…

Endure. And that is all.




despair, passion, master, pauldrobertson

I have been writing my novel, which is so exciting i made my cat throw up last chapter I finished. Um… I spun her around saying “YAY!” too much. so i haven’t been painting anywhere near as much as i like to. (I’ve also been realllllllly sick. oh well.) Apart from painting I have a side-line in cat straightening – an uncommon skill that i learned in a dzong in Bhutan.

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  • Deborah Lazarus
    Deborah Lazarusover 3 years ago

  • paulramnora
    paulramnoraover 3 years ago

    Bloody hell, you write damn well! I felt quite literally ‘forced’ to go read it straight through to the end; even though, at first, I just looked thinking, no, this is far too long! You drawing is extremely powerful, too. ;-)

  • Caroline Roberti
    Caroline Robertiover 3 years ago

    This is so beautiful and sad all at once. Your writing is brilliant and comes straight from the soul… I wish you many more non-sick days, you deserve to be able to continue what you love.

  • Reg  Lyons
    Reg Lyonsover 3 years ago

    rejected from “Posted: No Trespassing” again due to irrelevant subject matter.

  • pauldrobertson
    pauldrobertsonover 3 years ago

    i a sorry about earlier confusion; i misremembered your specificity.

    however i believe that this piece stands; in light of your groups rules.

    i did not take the time to read through them all. my apologies.

    i have left the group.

    there is some great work there and i can see how mine would be… a little beyond what you are seeking. my repeated posts there must have annoyed you no end.

    however i find it difficult to concentrate and despite shortlived periods of lucidity, often make mistakes of cllassification and simplistic understnading.

    i have a llarge brain tumour ihn my left temporal lobe, extending down to put pressure on my thalamus and what thaat entails.

    this has caused me to suffer from chronic, treatment resistant pain.
    i spendm9ost of each week writhing and occasionally screaming.

    i swear upon my wondrous, loving family, my hands, my works that this is true.

    so i wasn’t just being a dick.

    i don’t really mind as i am become accustomed to such misadventures and the antipathy they can generate in others.

    though perhaps sending a private message would have been more discreet.

    thanks for taking the time to let them accumulate!
    and my sincere apologies once more.

    i am just relieved that today is one of the days wherein my pain mysteriously lessens to the pont where i can function.



  • Ina Mar
    Ina Marover 3 years ago

    Paul, I think I am in love with your large brain tumour in the left temporal lobe…
    And hundreds of people are relieved on those days where your pain mysteriously lessens to the point where you can create and post your new creations.

  • Mary Sedici
    Mary Sediciover 3 years ago

    January 23rd, 2010
    Please enter/vote in the ongoing Challenges

  • vampvamp
    vampvampover 3 years ago

  • PaoloFranco
    PaoloFrancoover 3 years ago

  • Rachelle Dyer
    Rachelle Dyerover 3 years ago

    Your art is amazing and your writing draws me in.
    I have dealt with my own chronic pain although it is nothing compared to yours… keep fighting! keep living! and please keep creating because you are an incredible individual!
    thank you for sharing your genius with the world!

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