Poetry, is not always art
You say, it can also be a symptom.

Although it comes like a ****
I say, there always is a twinge of wisdom.

See, this gassy release,
A sign of my impending thought- feces
A mark of my emotional constipation.
It puts at ease.
Though others be displeased
It is a sign of my imagination.

Is it madness or it is magic?
You begin to probe.
You say it would be tragic
And suspect a diseased temporal lobe.

Can medication
Cause hesitation
In the outpouring of my words?
“Yes it can.
Certain chemicals it may ban
You'd stop expelling all that "****" ”

But this is MY ****
I continue to persist
Who are you to grudge?
Whether I may or may not
Progress or rot,
Is not for you to judge.

You say you want to help me
To function, to be “normal”
But I don’t think that life should be
So boring and so formal.

But you say it is not that romantic
But rather mania.
I think you are being pedantic,
Science does not cover all areas.

In the end I concede,
To take the blessed pill
But say good bye to my rhyming poetry,
It will be gone once my mind is still.