|Title:||Sonnet: “A Bipolar Cliché”|
Life as a manic-depressive's so drab|
and wearisome at times; it's quite enough
to drag me down where I don't feel so tough.
When manic I have the rare gift of gab;
at such times, I wish I can take a cab
to the club, get drunk, and act like a rough;
but I don’t as I fear the Feds's rebuff;
so I behave like a rat in their lab.
My life's so full of hopelessness it seems;
if I could I would end it right away,
but that'd be taking it to great extremes
and drama; instead, I read books all day
and craft poems of more deviant, droll themes—
oh, that I weren’t a bipolar cliché!...