I am not mad—though I say almost,
I am not sad, nor a haunted ghost.
Still, sadness I know, like a fleeting breeze,
But it does not root, it does not seize.
I am not lost, nor do I despair,
Yet you’d think it so by the words I share.
Lunacy, you say! But to me, it’s art,
A dance with shadows, a muse of heart.
Darkness dreary, anger sharp,
A heavy weight, Yet my mind’s not warp—
None of this truly defines my core,
I feel it all, yet I am much more.
For I feel everything, all the time, all at once,
The joy, the sorrow, I’m an intelligent dunce—
How can I be depressed when I’m so blessed?
How can I be lonely, when love puts me to rest?
How can I be sorrowful when each new day
is an exclamation of life that I love to play?
I am not mad—I’m of a different kind,
Perhaps I feel too much, too much in my mind.
It’s all so vast, it’s simply too big to contain,
So I cut it up, piece by piece, in order to explain.
This seeming lunacy isn’t really me,
It’s just a fragment I’ve let you see.
There’s more to me, layers deep inside,
A world unspoken, where I reside.
I am not mad, though it may seem so,
I’m simply alive, where feelings overflow.

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