Like a Flower

 To think I’m like a flower

as luminous, as splendid, as refined

but after a week, I cripple and die. 

What I dip my feet in and have a glass of every morning

is what keeps me alive.

One wrong step and I’d fall from the river’s rocks

but I want to be up high.

I’m isolated and inquisitive.

I crave spending time with friends, then question the point of them.

I forget the most crucial facts of life. 

How much choice do I have in being a loner?

How many nights will I wake up and paint until I oversleep again?

How many days will my boss count their blessings over me until I await firing?

Having bipolar is like a flower. A largely alive then dying flower.