My first ever "adult" attempt at poetry.

BIPOLAR -
Too anxious-
can't sleep.
Down some pills.
To hell with my liver.
It's about now.
Sleep restores,
heals,
numbs
puts off "the list"
--the inevitable,
muted
taunting.
The incomplete,
undone,
unattained,
unrealized --awaits.
And with it?
Another morning.
Another pill-

Caffeinate.
Though I shouldn't.
Do I have to be anywhere?
I want desperately to imagine,
create,
build.
Something
euphoric-
better than expected--
brilliant.
Sublime.
Mostly instead,
I do not move.
I stare at a screen--
desperate to determine
if I matter to anyone,
which is absurd.-
I build a fire.
Hibernate.
Read.
My private world--
no one is invited.
Time lingers,
floats-
is suspended...
evaporates.
I squander time,
unashamed,
for awhile.

Then at precisely 5:50,
life intrudes.
The garage door-opening
signals the end of my solitude,
and ironically
the start of a different kind
of -- shared isolation.
Anticipating silent questions:
"what have you done?",
"What haven't you done?"
I rush to appear
nonchalant.
Turn on the lights,
turn off the computer,
feed the dog,
get dressed.
I have it down.
Caught in the act-
of doing
nothing.