I’m not even bipolar—
but damn, it feels close.
One verse is mourning,
the next one jokes.
I write eulogies in glitter pens,
love notes
and nervous jokes
that beg to be laughed at
or else.
One hour I’m a stormcloud,
soggy with ache—
the next, I’m helium,
too loud to break.
Who needs a diagnosis
when my drafts do it for me?
I’ll write like I’m dying,
then dance like a fool,
cry over metaphors,
then rhyme "spleen" with "pool."
I’m comedy and tragedy
in a trench coat.
I’m a stagehand
who keeps stealing the show.
They say, pick a lane,
but I paint the street.
With chaos in cursive
and shame on repeat.
A jester who journals.
A preacher with punchlines.
A ghost that rewrites itself
to feel fine.
I’m not even bipolar—
but sometimes I swear
my stanzas swing
like a cross on a dare.
But I’ll keep writing
what the mood demands:
a scream,
a pun,
a trembling hand.
Because this is how I stay afloat—
through mess, through masks,
through every note.
So if it sounds unsteady,
well—
it is.
But all of it
is honest.
And all of it
is me.
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