Traveling This Seesaw
by Felino Soriano
they call it Bipolar Disorder
1.
Depression
I nail myself off, away from hurricanes—
their absurd wind speeds and diluting rains,
deaths inducing bone pain and misery,
from blatant symbols of the earth—
any famed legend of trees and deepest
foot of ocean, the good of leaves and moisture,
the battles to conserve the souls of both,
from the mirror holding my oval face
and the faces of gone by elders—
my aging reflection, deepening wrinkles
aggressing against the past, my razor’s
stainless steel, more legible
than my reversing, weakening smile,
from whispering voices—
familiar in love and wants for my success,
their bending, embedding words mean nothing
as I travel the distance cutting their supply,
from food and drink—
their enticing bodies that long ago
would heal my throbbing tongue,
from favorite books—
published words and polished photos,
effort and talent
catching the eye of an opinion,
from organized writing—
isolation arrests my will, pens regress into stillness,
my mind is sealed rubbish,
Do Not Enter stapled against life’s intent,
people, dogs smiles, anything on a whim
could push my hand
into shaping letters
across the fertile page,
vanished.
2.
Mania
Adrenal gland, plump as a rare steak
shoves its ooze through me quickly.
Sustenance sustains itself.
Lingering sleep means wasted moments
to jump off of ending life.
Someone else enters me,
not an apparition or type of evil intent,
but someone from a comic book
or brash legendary status.
Reaching hands thrust holes
in my pockets: money becomes infinite,
until bills heavy with mistakes slaps me
with the idiot epithet. Help tries to comfort me,
spilling pills atop my tongue
flushed down by water and fear. Dreams
occur in the oddest, slanting shapes: running,
quickly away from death—no bullet
or knife swipe can connect with my flesh,
I’m running, leaping over desolate chunks
of earth interpreted as my doubts. Who knows?
I wonder from my sweating bed and sessions
of examination prescribed by my last hope.