My Personal River

My Personal River

Through the years I can see my life
Running down a river bed, along a clear water stream,
Clear water from melted snow, and me perhaps
Favoring the guise of a fallen autumn leaf, floating.

Each passage rolling along from daylight through dark
Casts me further and deeper into a dark and lonely time,
Twisting and bending my perceptions, disassociated choices
Seeping Into the inlets and land crevices along my riverbed.

We all have our rivers' run, but mine is marked differently.
You could call my emotions icebergs, floating by, upstream,
Sometimes crashing and dashing but mostly out of sight,
Bipolar disorder, those words, my diagnosis, my life.

I didn't ask for this; it just happened to me biogenetically,
Not even pinpointed till after 30, like spurts of emotional magma
That churns and clogs seasonally in my head, though I could not
Tell the difference from normal, because it's normal for me.

The last word of your tirade punches my button, flattens my facade.
The injustices waged by society upon itself, almost always gravitate
Magnetically, soaking up other's sadness, pain, and rage for myself,
Inadvertently influenced by others' glares. Nobody else could run my race.

Not a topic for casual conversation, never, "Oh, by the way,
I'm bipolar." It's my life and my secret, but others still
Brandish the word like a public weapon, slicing and dicing.
Conditional love, to suit their needs, leaving me to my best efforts.