I'm gonna tell you about a girl who looks like me:
She can't be suppressed, it seems;
Though buried ten feet under meds, my body,
She still turns up in my dreams.

She has my appearance, every last feature intact:
Pale, brown hair, but with red eyes
And a vague smile that's so unlike mine; in fact,
All my morals, she defies.

Anywhere her unconscious mental-fixing demand,
From villages, blank space, hell,
She- enjoys always having the upper hand;
Takes, then offers it back as well.

She'd find ways of haunting me in my waking hours too,
Like waking and confusing.
She won't show up now because I want her to;
I want to ask her something.

Mom says I've been speaking of the red-eyed girl since six
And got scared by a photo.
Her persona is one of Bipolar's tricks;
I was born with it, you know.

{5/26/'07 Editted...}
Now, realizing I'd be insane if it weren't for her
Since her suggestions make sense
And, those in my dreams weren't real, who she tortured,
I guess she's good, in a sense.

You know you'll always have the upper hand, I see,
As you lean back with that sneer.
Set aside my ego, you're good company;
Your cackles, I cannot fear.