POEM: Too Happy


I’m too happy to be crazy,

but the happy makes me lazy

Not lazy, but lacking focus.

Madness is a creative locus.


A sad gravity weighs one down,

as lip corners into a frown,

but in the pit resides a muse.

People pay to hear the blues.


If you could peer inside my mind,

you’d see stacks of rotting rinds.

The rinds pile up and they ferment.

Maybe to a soulful lament?


Or maybe they just start to  sour,

becoming fouler by the hour.

Until you can’t believe the stink,

and every word is wasted ink.






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