Bipolar Poetry

Ah, there are some doors in my home I don’t open

back gardens, long attics, sub-basements,

a heavy pivot door with laughter on the other side.

When in doubt, don’t

no good can come of that

Until I do

Mania is greater than strength, for I cannot overcome it

Vestibule feels like a held breath.

I am reclining on air

Afterimages of my limbs burn around me,

slowly golden.

I explain to friends everything in their gray areas,

“Follow me, play with me, fall to me.”

My laughter is green, cold water overflowing a claw-foot tub that was not there before this thought

Mania summons structures

Neither was this chandelier here

a new labyrinth of facets glows over my head

reflections slide around planes and spark off angles

points flare with captured light

of my towering, gorgeous will.

Every room becomes a place I move through to get somewhere else

Walls are not for me

I test the reality of borders

I laugh to my past self from behind the pivot door,

“May the world last for you.”