|I am tempting
At the age of 43
Separated, two kids, no job prospects to be seen
To top it all off
Men are knocking down my door
Because I have a dish called Bipolar for them all
I am not a good cook
That is true
But my dishes are tasty
Each day something new
Now let me insist I share last week’s menu with you
Monday was pressured speech, thoughts experienced as racing
Tuesday; optimism and talking so rapidly all you want to do is pacing
Wednesday was a serve of I don’t give a f*ck
Thursday I tried mental sluggishness and tough luck
Friday was impaired judgment and feeling unusually high
Saturday; hopeless, sad and empty, the end is nigh
Sunday’s my favourite dish of the week; happiness, depression, low energy, oh how sweet
Swallow it down with a glass of low self-esteem
Voilà! Weekly meals one can only dream
My tastes are not predictable
No planning ahead
Come over to dinner
Then again no
Bipolar is a dish best served alone
|I watch you, pace the floor,
I know the signs, seen them before.
Your smile has gone, your face blank,
Your thoughts muddled, your heart sank.
I try to comfort, help you through,
Sometimes, I don’t know what to do.
You want me to go, want me to stay.
You yell and you scream, I hear your cry,
You crumble to the floor, just want to die.
I lift you up, dry your tears,
Recall the past, allay your fears.
I want you to know, you are not alone,
Want you to see, how much you’ve grown.
Want you to feel, your hand in mine,
Want you to believe, you’ll heal with time.