Mad in my envy.
Mad in the irrational stresses of "love".
Mad at all the happiness I isolate.
Mad with the visions of success.
Mad with my prewar publications.
Mad with your gestures of bliss.
Mad in how we can't get carried away.
Mad at how the money always talks back.
Mad when I am making this a monologue.
Mad when I haven't crossed the minds of
       strangers.
Mad when they declare the eyes of reason to
       be obscene for the children.
Mad at the fame that they call existence.
Mad when I see the lackluster descriptive
       lies within their Bibles.
Mad that you became the society we
       ******.
Mad toward the rebirth of the minister's
       daughter who sang for forgiveness and
       love but lied about both,
Wasting our time on useless Norwich
       sonnets, and naming the theoretical
       infants—
Wouldn't anyone be mad as hell?

II. GENESIS.

Beautiful in your powerful gaze, upgrading
       constantly, tossing me aside, casting
       countless new euphoric darlings into the
       void since my dismissal.

Draining each meaningful vein from the
       poor souls who fall under your magnetic
       pull—who want to brave the human    
       castle (floor lined with pitfalls) and then
       you, *** Incarnate! Most perfect
       amongst us! Blessed be your Godly
       word, you execute them with joy!

Holy in your immaculate beauty, dear Saint!
Now it is your time of reckoning.

Happy Birthday.

Don't forget who made you.