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.
Copyright © Kelly McDonald | Year Posted 2006