It’s World Bipolar Day today, or so Twitter tells me.
Here’s a poem.
I want to do something new that excites me.
But, when I try and think of what that might be
I’m stopped by an inconvenient anxiety.
I’m anxious to not let life pass me by
But when I think of the things that I want to try
My life’s sent the message, but my brain doesn’t reply.
It’s those around me taking the plunge
Meanwhile, I’m home and dry.
I should be doing something else
instead of loading the next Netflix installment.
And everyone around is unconvinced
by the tracing paper smile that I’m faking.
I wouldn’t describe myself as anxious
but the general consensus
among the nexus
of family and friends
that I’m still lucky enough to possess
would be that I am.
I act the laid-back flake.
Always game to participate,
Always ready to intimidate,
one of your mates,
But then, I’m home.
And I’m alone.
And the booze has run dry and the drugs are all gone.
And I’m just me again.
Me on my own
Going through last night’s pictures on my phone
Scraping dust from my grinder to get a little bit stoned
Enough so I can fall asleep
And count the sheep
Then slowly together my eyelids creep
and it’s two minutes later and my alarm, it beeps.
Here’s the morning, indiscreet.
As ever, the sun glares at me
through the supposed safety of my sheets.
It teases me
It chases me
to get outta bed and drink that same cup of tea
I always drink.
Without time to think
about how each day’s the same
and each day pushes me closer to the brink.
Now, in let that sink.
There it is again
that same old trend
that plays me round and round the bend
and never does it fucking end
A broken record in my head,
to play each day until I am dead.