Strange

I can confess to feeling strange,
In times when judgements rearrange,
And prudence calls for the estrange,
Of moods that echo higher range.

I can confess to being bored,
When gloom becomes my overload,
And traps me in a callous horde,
Where actions drown in stupor poured.

I can confess to opting out,
When wisdom raises words to flout,
And life portrays a barren drought,
Entrenched with shallow dread and doubt.

I can confess to staying put,
When vast adventures are afoot,
My drive has simply gone kaput,
And left me shrivelled in the soot.

I can confess to crashing hard,
As life plays out its joker card,
Identity a broken shard,
With nothing left behind to guard.

I can confess to going mad,
Where crazy balances the sad,
And feats of glum turn almost glad,
To be insane is not so bad.

I can confess to feeling strange,
And in my heart I rearrange,
The wants and needs of life’s estrange,
That bring about immortal change.

© The Complicated Bunny – 17 Jul 2022