Bipolar
My Bipolar Child and Now I’m Old
Bright hurting the eyes
This light melted
the will of a mind,
already crackled and broken.
Stumbling, sliced, and wondering,
pieces of broken mirror cut the mind.
Laid out, felt naked, spurred,
and in bedded clattering desperation.
Lost in the bits and pieces
and selves of others,
accepting their wills as my own.
I am not really here.
The other kids are playing,
in the field by the trees.
On a curbside a 6-year-old boy ponders,
destiny, God, eternity, infinity, and death,
of course he is,
it only makes sense to me.
Craig, still curbside.
