Bipolar is my burden
Anxiety is my curse

Things go well and well
Then things just get worse and worse

My torment is religious
I fear the long black hearse

But I'm grateful, very grateful
To that lovely Dublin nurse

She helped my son recover
The illness was reversed

          Erin Go Bragh!

The king is dead,
The queen is still quite pretty,
And not the other way around.

Not everyone is Shakespeare, and even Shakespeare
Wasn't Shakespeare, until he was dead,
Which is quite sad.

The leaves will change
And fall to our feet
The winds will blow
Let the branches meet

Crisp morning air
To fill the lungs
Of townspeople walking
Warmed by the sun

Yet still our paths
May not yet cross
Lest we bathe
In seas of loss

The world still turns
So trapped in place
Stuck longing just
To touch your face

gently gently
they placed you in my arms
you were too little to live, they said
but to strong-willed to die
“She might not make it through the night,” they said,
But instead you survived

Dismal
grim
no chance of me
going out
I'm staying in
and for the night.

No change then?
said the old men
of which I'm not one.

When the sun shines
and the drums beat time
to my time,
when the odds of succeeding
are slim
that's where you'll find me
fitting right in
until then
until I am one of the old men
I'm staying in.