Hypomania

(I have Bipolar. I can be up, down, or in between. This is what hypomania is like for me, condensed down, in poem form.)




I’m egg-yolk yellow, shell cracked wide.
I wanna bash me with a spoon
to smithereens, then climb inside.

I wanna shoot up to the Moon
from my windowsill, in the rain,
there and back in an afternoon.

I’m wrapped up tight in cellophane.
I like the noise.  Should phone the shrink,
but I’d rather have a hurricane,

blister-fast, twisted way I think -
can’t chain my brain -  it’s plastic, red,
like a coiled foiled bottle of drink.

And no, I won’t go up to bed.
I’ll slide downstairs and effervesce,
sing to the dogs and write instead.

Sometimes I go where it goes: Yes!
I go post-haste, no parachute.
Sara is not at this address.

Sometimes the dogs are in pursuit,
barking, “Faster!  Head for the snow!
Collect three lots of skis en-route!”

The mountain tops glitter below,
too tempting, so we take a leap
the fastest way, like an arrow.

It’s like a dream, but not like sleep.
I choose to try to choose the way
like shoes, but still the tangents keep

popping like bubbles overhead,
like champagne in the sky, raining
on my shoulders, raining in my bed,

so now my bed’s afloat, and I’m
rowing away north south east west,
still soaking wet. And now the time

speeding, slowing - is all The Now,
is all The Here.  I climb inside;
I’m Alice, small and big. I go

to where the Queen is dead.  She died
the fastest way, by my arrow.


© professoryackle (Sara Pitt) All Rights Reserved.