They say I have hallucinations,
"They aren't real",
But how can something I've seen or heard be fake?
They say "hallucinations",
I say "superpower".
I've seen things before they happen, and I stopped a child stepping on a piece of sharp plastic seconds before it happened.
How are these "hallucinations" when I've clearly heard someone call my name or I've had a conversation with someone?
"It never happened."
How are these "hallucinations" when I've seen, felt, and heard someone do something?
"It never happened."
How are these "hallucinations" when they're my reality?
The good days are my light. They make you feel like you're walking on air.
They call it "manic",
I call it bliss.
They say I need to watch my "highs",
I say, let them roam free, swoop me up in their wing and fly away.
They say I need medicine, but, why cage a beautiful thing?
The bad days are my darkness.
They make up for the good days.
"The low",
the low comes and you feel like you're a zombie.
You won't eat because food won't cure the hunger you have.
You want to die, but the sadness is like an old friend.
The sadness is too beautiful to let go, so you welcome it with open, bleeding arms.
My sadness is disaster.
It's my "reality check",
It's my way of realizing I'll never be "sane" without the medicine they shove down my throat.
There's a name for this, for these highs and lows, for this craving for taboo things, the hallucinations.
This is bipolar.
But,
I am me,
I am bipolar,
I am beautiful,
I am a disaster.
And my bipolar and I,
We're the beautiful disaster.
