As the gulf of contrast widens
between myself and that healthy ideal
of conforming comfort, of the easy belonging
of those who simply fit,
as every day I feel the slipping away
of those hands which once gripped tight
around my circuits, trusting of their soundness,
but which have lately found safer outlets-
I must be pacified to know that I’m
not half so mad as all that.
No, I’m not so mad as those raving loons
one marvels at with fear or disdain,
those zealous champions of very particular things
who forget to brush their teeth in their fervor.
I’m not half so mad as those sleep-deprived crackpots
sucked into private wastelands of frustration
and the meticulous pursuit of invisible things
of which not even pride could be a just reward.
But if I in my junior pains could do more
and vastly more to occupy the shadows cast
by injudicious peers, to deserve their derision,
to earn and truly earn a hole in the ground
I should never come back out-
but the strains are null because I know that I’m
not half so mad as I should be.