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.
By B Gourley in Emotion, poem, Poetry on August 27, 2016.
