The Diary of the Mad Lady

Photo by Peter Forster on Unsplash

Not dithering, I tell a tale,
Nay, not a tale but a farce.
A farce? Guess it will do.
Embedded in every sphere lies a variance,
The variance of sanity, my world.

No fib. A malaise did it.
So transient, yet, no trifle.
Nary a word of consent from me
My mind went `Loco’,
Or so they said.

The journey from sanity to my state,
Was the only craze I knew.
That tricky old fiend- Fear, flounced on me.
Alas! Like a prairie, doom spread before me.
But, guess what! It was but a phantasm.

Wonder what’s surreal about my life?
Choosing scuzzy robes over fickle fashion.
The phobia of a trimmed hair left mine shaggy.
No doubt, soliloquy supersedes intent.
It’s all about choice.

The staccato burst of pain etched
In every pitying glance, left me ditzy
And in search of a scorching valium.
Why those chains and strait jackets?
Am not dork nor dopy, just bizarre.

``Non Composmentis’’, the learned one yelled.
A psychomat! The syringed man called me.
In his words, ``Even Bethlem has no cure’’.
On those gnomic phrase and frenzied flat-let,
With fain, I made my grand escape.

By jove! It sounds so weird,
That the ones pitied, in turn, pity me.
I make no exception, here is a world of freedom,
Free to chase my ghosts as they come.
Ghosts, who as I write, just graced my fief.

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