I was asked by someone just what it is like to be bipolar.  I don’t necessarily want to beat a dead horse on this subject but I also don’t want to run from gathering clouds.  I had never been asked the question so directly before and I must admit it caught me off guard.  As I started to answer the question I looked to my right and then to my left.  There was no apparent reason to look anywhere other than in the searching blue eyes of the enquirer. That was my simple answer.  To be bipolar is to feel an uncertainty and all sense of direction is tossed out of an open window and any sense of logical thinking dissipates like swirling dust in the wind. I think that’s enough for now…it’s not like Jack Nicholson said in the movie A Few Good Men…”You can’t handle the truth!”  It is more like Nurse Ratched said in another Nicholson film, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, “The best thing we can do is go on with our daily routine.”

Probably none of that makes sense and therefore that becomes my definition of what it is like to be bipolar. On the subject of poetry a similar question could be asked.  Where do poems come from?  Once again, I have no answer for this question and could only answer from personal experience.  Rather than do that I invite those of you who write poetry to give some perspective and insight.  If you don’t write poetry please feel free to offer insight on any other interests you have.

melody of your smile

though you have been gone
for only a short while
i constantly find myself
searching through the pages of my mind
for memories

what does your smile sound like?

when morning stretches before you
where does your heart sing?

i no longer have words
or phrases
to fill the pages of my day

now there are only
single letters
in want of one another

punctuation is lost between the words
like silent pauses

silence is nice
it is in silence
i hear the melody of your smile