Christian A. Camerota

I’ve seen the darkest of my synapses and I wonder where they lead.

I wonder what kinds of thoughts go wild there, and what feelings they will meet.

I get lost with all my wondering, but it’s my only chance to find my way.

I’ll go crazy with my wondering, but crazy is as crazy does, or at least that’s what they say.

And what is crazy, anyway, but just a step above mundane?

It’s ordinary plus some flare, a rabid bark away from tame.

Brave’s not quite the word for me, since brave’s a noble breed.

It’s crazy that I want to be, it’s crazy that I need.

Wild feels like home to me, out where the trains don’t run.

Insane’s the butter for my bread, the habit for my nun.

You might say I’m down a screw, my shed is short tool,

And I would say go fuck yourself, I’m awesome, man, I rule.

And then you’d say, “Well, that’s quite rude, you don’t swear in poetry.”

And I’d respond, “Eat shit, kind sir, I want my verses to be free.”