I am a SUPERHERO

I am a superhero.

Well, sort of.

My super power doesn't really allow me to see through things

Or fly

Or give me invisibility

Or the strength of a thousand men.

 

My super power isn't in a bracelet

Or a shield

Or a cape

Or a spandex suit.

 

My body isn't green

Nor do I have lights beaming from my hands.

I cannot incinerate a target by removing my glasses.

Nor do I have retractable claws.

 

My superpower is quite evil

when compared to my counter parts.

I have cynicism down to a tee.

I can summon rain clouds out of thin air.

And my tears are their own river.

I can read people's thoughts.

More like create terrible commentary and believe that's really what they think.

My hiding under the covers game is so strong that all of my friends have forgotten to seek me.

I am amazing at rescheduling plans because I have aches and pains, that no one can see.

I do try to tell them, but how can I explain that I am the enemy

I am the last person that I would think to betray me

How can I ever articulate

Why I feel like a hand grenade

Why my thoughts are land mines

How my covers seem to extinguish the fires that burn me up every night

Or that

My bed is my battleship and there is only room enough for one

My imagination is so far out there

that I do dream of the day that I will fly.

Just so happens that that's also the day that I plunge to my death.

I told you that I'm a superhero.

Because despite all of this tremendous super powers

every single day I manage to save myself.

(The year that I was diagnosed with manic-depression)

This poem is about: 
Me

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