Hurry, I need a little rage
and a little war to blow my stillness away,
a severe detonation to colour grey matter,
to trigger off a neuron or emotion
or to move from this month to May,
for if Earth stopped its life would wither,
and if for no other reason,
I need a little dance, love — it’s Saturday.
But, damned be, wisdom demands a full stop,
calmness to judge what's going astray,
and the quietness of its voice to lasso a child
hyperactive showing off life in its full array.
To live, then, is to suffer from bipolar disorder,
a deadlock which key lies in what is to be,
for I die to live, hooray!
