Bipolar Tightrope High

Tightrope high…so precarious So liquid gold smooth rushing through my veins I am everyone; anyone; and no one Don’t look down. Seven levels of thought, like spinning plates on wobbling sticks I am outside myself and can hear every noise, every conversation Don't let them see. Inside is constant analysis, repetition, spelling, counting, shaking Darting eyes over words on paper; unsteady hands for writing Don't move my lips. Waiting for the voices, but building a barrier in case they come I need to go…anywhere but here Don't lose my nerve. Don't lose my self.