bipolar 1 is a son of a gun
looking inside becomes a weighty endeavor
peeping outside is in no way better
hypomania, baby what a blast that phase is
going 100 miles an hour with no seat belt or helmet
giving in to the whims of the moment the universe is
beyond colorful. how do u explain the crash of the century..breaking bones inside the minds finding clarity; in nothing particular but flying by to find the mind is gone haywire.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.