For what reason this all-or-nothing thinking?

     Too hot, too cold,—but never in the middle

     I live, a victim of this ruthless riddle

(that contradicts reply, and has me sinking)!

This anarchy of mind that's got me drinking

     is never gray, but too much or too little

     like a deranged instrument, a fiddle,

that counterpoints a melody without blinking.

Unlike my thinking, life's not black or white

     but somewhere in the middle, where insane

          mad souls escape manic, neurotic thoughts 

like refugees from their demented plight,

     a Scylla and Charybdis that won't drain  

          the swirling currents of bipolar's storms.

By Ngoc Nguyen

From: United States