Sonar
A bipolar depressive poem
Your tongue is a water hose, much too wet
gushing wordplays: dripping, drenching. Slow-mo
ears soaking two, sometimes three: this damp set
of syllables. Soggy replies. Slow flow.
Your smile is a catfish hook, much too sharp
gilling face-tells: reeling, ripping. Stuck in
eyes, fish you back: fluster forlorn. Sad carp
on a catchline, swimming silent. Sunk in.
Your story is a luxury liner
that I cannot afford. Off starboard bow,
a submarine: hushed sonar, much deeper.
Seeker of something, Poseidon allow.
Lurking under these waves: sea monster things.
Sweeping outward, upward: submarine pings.
MaggotsX @ 2017.11.10
John R. Hampton
Author’s Note: I’ve been attempting to depict what it feels like to have Bipolar for a long while now. Most of my poems now are written during my now medicated manic phase. The mania is very, very manageable but there are some accommodations that still have to be made to manage it well. Most involve thinking and watching. The medicated depressive phase I struggle…
