The old up and down mood swing thing is a device
Like an ink-filled contraption ordained to release,
For the writer accomplished and of nimble hand,
Its darkness upon whiteness. Though not a demand,
Both machine-like and cyclic, they merge into peace.
If my words can release me, should that not suffice?
That it brings satisfaction is function at worse.
And at best, it may be of some value to some
Who are like me – a mood swinger extraordinaire.
Tragedy entertains, and I’m willing to share.
Clearly it is a safe way to best overcome
What, in mental health circles, would be called a curse.
I don’t write from delusion. My shit is for real.
Were it not, then what part of whose psychotic mess
Have I assumed in essence? Indeed, I make sense,
To myself and to others without much expense,
Of that part of existence I seem to possess
By exposing it and all that it may reveal.