It's like
The sky came down and pinched the back of my neck
And took me too high too fast
So I shout
And I laugh
And I say inappropriate things
Other times it's like
The sky drops me and I know I'm falling
So I panic
And flail
And fight the inevitable
But it's no use there's nothing I can do to reduce the fall
I crash
I go real quiet and my head is tearing itself apart
My friends my family my own lover has no idea
What's going on
What it's like
Or how to help
Or that I know what's happening and can't help it either
So they get annoyed
Even angry
And so do I because I know it's affecting them
Almost as much as it's hurting me
So I cry
And I cry
And then I cut
Or snap my wrist with a hair tie
Because pain is the only thing that can wake me from the numbing terror
The grip of manic depression has on me

she lies on the bed facing me
the curve of her hips
giving shape to the
blankets

her bare shoulder and arm are
bent at a gentle angle
as she lightly runs her
fingers
through my hair
her tattoos a vibrant
splash
of color on her alabaster skin

half lidded eyes take me in
and she sighs, a Mona Lisa
smile
on her lips

A million thoughts run through my
mind, my manic mind,
while she caresses me in complacent
bliss

How did I end up here
with this woman
with her perfect peace contrasting my
inferior and harmful
psychosis -
my constant battle with myself
and the universe

How can she love me
a man
who screams in defiance
at the tempest
while she spreads her
arms wide
and turns her face into the
rain and glories in it

My thoughts swirl
and clash
with the outward serenity
of the bedroom

And this is normal for me

The surprise comes when,
in a single moment
of clarity,
in between one manic thought
and the next,
I sigh with her
release the knot in my chest -
say “**** it” and
kiss her eyelids

I join her in this
perfect
moment of contentment

even as she wonders at my
sudden exclamation

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I still shave
And later scratch the burn atop
My, “apple.”

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
I wake up. I go to work.
I hate copy-machine jams.
And I hate my boss.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
In China, poets often drink.
I drink,
Therefore I’m in China.

I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
Which doesn’t excuse,
It creates my, “excuse,”
At the least, to wander.

And I’m what they call a,
“Functional.”
If I weren’t, I’d never sleep;
I’d never live, never dream,
And’d never know you.

Trembling hands
Hands turn to ice
There's ice in bones
Present in my bones
But not in my heart
In my heart I try to find hope
Hope of tomorrow and
Hope for the future
The future without so many crutches
Crutches that I need now
Now is when I wish
I wasn't born into this