Loss of emotional control.
Over stimulation of the senses.
Vacant stares during mundane tasks.
Eventual break down in all rational thought.

It's hard to be a bard.

I turned my back,
ignored its pleas,
but found it,
staring back at me.

I tried to hide it,
beneath my bed,
in a wooden box,
with a wooden lid.

But it shook the floor,
rattled the pipes,
knocked the door,
and flicked the lights.

I tried to paint it—
the colours ran.
I tried to shape it—
the best I can.

But it returned.
Caught unaware,
so I sat it in—
a doctor's chair.

"Doctor, please,
I have this pain,
something that
I can't explain."

"Listen, sir,
all tests are done.
Clinically speaking,
there's nothing wrong."

So I locked my pain
in the trunk of my car,
and drove it down
to the nearest bar.

The bar was full—
of people like me,
hiding their pain
for all to see.

If ratios strike fear—
into every one in two,
half the world will be—
in abject misery.

Love ties bows
around garbage bins.

Turns losses into wins.

Brightens a sky,
shortens a queue.

Changes one into two.