Thursday, November 27, 2008

I wrote something on the bus

You think: there might be something wrong with me, some disease. Those rumors of those crazy girls.
You think: am I one of them? It must be so. I sing and dance (this no metaphor) then go home and cry. Bipolar disorder does not shift this fast. I must be borderline.
I think: maybe I'm just alive, but then
I think: is this it? Is this living?

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