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Here comes the change of seasons— summer becoming autumn; green becoming red; red becoming compost. This time is when I find the forgotten dollar bills, shopping lists, and ghosts in the pockets of my warmer coats. This is the season where my mood becomes grey, becomes the lonesome neutral against which the fallen leaves are bright and brutal. This is the season when the bipolar demons slouch into my room and want me to suffer from incandescent laughter and dance ecstatically with doom.
Sometimes I can't find a way to comment, not because there aren't thoughts and emotions triggered by a poem, but because there is so much magic that I am convinced my words would break the poetry. When I was a little girl I read an introduction to a book of poetry. The introduction was written by a wonderful writer, one of those writers who are really poets even though they write in prose. A writer was speaking about a poet. It started: "when you speak of a poet, you have to whisper" I've always remembered that quote. Some poems require whispers. This poem requires whispers...maybe even silence.
This is haunting. ( And beautiful). Thank you for sharing from the depths of your being. May you and all who experience bipolar disorder find peace.