Bipolar (Poetry)

Someone’s unscrewing the top of my head
and poking around in my brains
my thoughts are a soup of peculiar scraps
and a hash of unlikely remains.

There’s bits of old memory floating about
in a broth of forgotten past deeds
and it’s frankly impossible now to sort out
the perennials from straggling weeds.

So identification of matter is down
to pure whimsy — a stab in the dark
for nothing is actually quite how it seems
or translates to a telling remark.

Everything’s vague — I can’t think who I am
and I dread who this person might be
for the drug’s got a hold and now taken control
of some body supposed to be me.