Grandmother was crazy, crazy and flying, or drunk, in hiding
or that was the hope, to keep her home,
but no one tried keep her secret
Crazy isn’t quiet
There’s always a name
for what we are
To be kinder than crazy, absolve family fault
let’s not be Insane
We’ll be more comfortably
mentally ill, awaiting a cure
If ill we can be waiting for saving
Mania is a craze, a mad passion, at worst an obsession, but
manic is insanity with clarity of purpose as a weapon
Depression, the place heavy leaves when lifted
as depressed is trapped by the weight of all light having gone
a name with weight and no better
Manic depression is only crazy in clinical mode
We evolve, to more palatable
bipolar
disorder
and who isn’t laughing at two points opposing, how orderly two armies must be
to be so marching
instead of the chaos that erupts in havoc’s rapture, floods of light, sometimes
trapped, but not captured, and not kept, never kept longer
than the dark can swallow,
they are destined to follow
Disorder is kinder than ill
It’s what we are, what we have
what we learn to take
a pill to sleep, to wake
cycles upon cycles
but lower;
the weighted average flows lower
So when we sit and the doctor explains medicine to my child, my child—
God no
I should marshal manic armies, almighty fighting
screaming no, crying no, wailing, ranting, raving, giving into
no, and No, no
slipping under the weight
of no
I am still,
one more of us named.
Lord help me,
I have put what we are
in my child’s soul.