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.