this poem will be about my struggles with adhd

I hope you enjoy and pls lmk what you think

My mind is a house with every light on,

but the wiring is wrong.

Current jumps the walls.

The air buzzes even when I’m still.

Thoughts move like fireworks down the hallway—

no order,

no warning,

just flashes and echoes and aftermath.

I reach for one

and three more grab my sleeve,

each convinced it’s urgent,

each forgetting why it came.

Some days the noise grows too large for the rooms.

It presses outward,

paces the floorboards,

rattles the windows from the inside.

My body learns the exits first—

a flick of the hand,

a sharp blink,

a sudden shudder like static shaking free.

Small movements.

Necessary ones.

The storm grounding itself

so the house doesn’t split apart.

I don’t choose the spill.

It comes when the walls start breathing,

when thought piles on thought

until there’s no oxygen left.

My body reacts before I can ask it to—

a sharp jolt,

a break in the rhythm,

like something clawing its way out

because staying inside would be worse.

It isn’t release so much as survival.

Energy tearing a seam in the dark,

lightning striking downward

so it doesn’t turn inward.

I let it happen

because holding it all

feels like suffocating quietly.

Time behaves strangely here.

It leaks through my fingers,

slips under doors,

vanishes the moment I look directly at it.

Clocks stare like witnesses.

I apologise to them anyway.

Memory is a hallway with missing doors—

names hovering just out of reach,

sentences dissolving halfway spoken.

I step over the gaps,

pretend I meant to forget,

pretend it doesn’t follow me.

Some days my head is a carnival after dark—

lights too bright,

rides spinning too fast,

music overlapping until it sharpens.

I want to leave.

I want quiet.

But the ticket never tears

and the gates stay open.

Then comes the other kind of heavy.

Not loud—

dull.

A dimming after the surge.

Rooms go dark one by one.

Ideas slump in their chairs,

still breathing

but too tired to stand.

This is the exhaustion that doesn’t ask permission.

The kind rest doesn’t solve.

Bone-deep.

Sticky.

Like gravity turning personal.

My body stays still

while my mind keeps running,

burning energy it no longer has.

I stare at things I love

and feel only the weight of them.

Even stillness hums.

Even silence costs something.

And yet—

I find colours hiding in ordinary days.

Stories stitched between unrelated things.

Patterns where chaos pretends to be random.

My mind builds bridges instinctively,

even when I don’t know where they lead.

Ideas love me recklessly.

They arrive in crowds,

talk over one another,

leave without warning—

but for a moment

they make me feel infinite.

When focus finds me,

it grabs hard.

The world blurs.

Hours collapse into a single breath.

I forget to eat,

forget to move,

forget everything except the fire

and the way it finally listens.

I change my mind often

because every idea feels true

until the next one opens its mouth.

I am loyal to the moment,

not the map.

Some days I am exhaustion wrapped in motion.

Some days I am brilliance scattered across the floor.

Most days

I am both at once.

I am not broken.

I am not unfinished.

I am living inside a system turned up too loud—

one that shakes,

that spills,

that wears me thin,

but also sees more than it destroys.

This is what it’s like

to carry lightning in your pockets—

to learn when to release it,

when to rest,

and when to let it burn bright enough

to become light

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