I am designating a new lifestyle syndrome:
Self-involved manic-depressive artists - yeah!
based on my own nature, and as a tribute
to all of us who
ride high on the wings of a muse,
out beyond ecstasy
dancing to our own intricately sculptured tune
alive and awake and enraptured
to ultimate degrees, without reservation.
We who revel in our own juices,
marvel at our own electric chasm-jumping inspiration
who marvel at our own marvelousness,
with never a doubt until
we fall with bruising force
into our own banal, excruciating, screaming purple
anger reddened blues, self-denunciation,
self-flagellation, total ineffable despair.
Exhausting. Exilirating. Overwhelming and omnipotent.
How could we ever expect to fit all that
into a regularly coded lifestyle?