You call it a gift, but to some it’s a curse,
Words bouncing around in a frivolous verse,
That are pulled from a mind that is fixing to flee,
The insanity waging its war within thee.
To write is to share, to share is to feel,
But nothing I write is a really big deal,
It’s snippets of madness, it’s fragments of pain,
It’s scraps of a life that is hard to retain.
Emotions are wounded, relations are raw,
And so they are perfect to jot in the score,
With stigma surrounding a troublesome heart,
The rhyme writes itself with an ominous start.
My thoughts duly splayed and chaotically tuned,
Will sometimes reveal a deep festering wound,
And if you are lucky and time’s on your side,
I’ll take you along on my bipolar ride.
But words are just words, they are hardly a gift,
Unless you control them, they’ll run you adrift,
So I guess I am glad I can keep them in line,
And present to you readers, this folly of mine.
It’s lavishly crafted and ruefully told,
The humour is legend, it never gets old,
The struggle uplifting, with tongue stuck in cheek,
You’ll never get bored of the whimsy I speak.
But serious tones will align in the fold,
I’m rarely courageous, I’m woefully bold,
For a gift to be gifted, it must be received,
For a verse to be written, it must be conceived.
So receive it I will and conceive it I must,
I’m rarely mistaken, but this I intrust,
It was never a curse, my opinion did shift,
You were right all along, when you called it a gift.
© The Complicated Bunny – 10 Oct 2020