The bed is calling

At this late hour,

Promising respite

From the worries

That fill my mind,

But I cannot bring myself

To go there yet,

For my brain is feverish

With the worries

And concerns

That are born

Of my condition.

They are things

That other people

Would easily

Set aside,

Believing that,

With sleep,

The morning

Would bring

A resolution.

But I am not

Hardwired

That way.

I am bipolar.

I am programmed

To worry

And to

Over analyze

The minutiae

Of everyday life

Then to over react

As the adrenalin-fueled,

Sleep-deprived anxieties

Overwhelm my consciousness.

Long suffering friends

Must tune me out

For their own

Peace of mind,

Knowing from experience

That my moods will soon swing

From one extreme

To another.

They may love me,

But it is so much easier

Just to let me go.