Life is a journey for each of us, passing along the way. |
My Personal River Through the years I can see my life Running down a river bed, along a clear water stream, Clear water from melted snow, and me perhaps Favoring the guise of a fallen autumn leaf, floating. Each passage rolling along from daylight through dark Casts me further and deeper into a dark and lonely time, Twisting and bending my perceptions, disassociated choices Seeping Into the inlets and land crevices along my riverbed. We all have our rivers' run, but mine is marked differently. You could call my emotions icebergs, floating by, upstream, Sometimes crashing and dashing but mostly out of sight, Bipolar disorder, those words, my diagnosis, my life. I didn't ask for this; it just happened to me biogenetically, Not even pinpointed till after 30, like spurts of emotional magma That churns and clogs seasonally in my head, though I could not Tell the difference from normal, because it's normal for me. The last word of your tirade punches my button, flattens my facade. The injustices waged by society upon itself, almost always gravitate Magnetically, soaking up other's sadness, pain, and rage for myself, Inadvertently influenced by others' glares. Nobody else could run my race. Not a topic for casual conversation, never, "Oh, by the way, I'm bipolar." It's my life and my secret, but others still Brandish the word like a public weapon, slicing and dicing. Conditional love, to suit their needs, leaving me to my best efforts. |