On Slaking our Thirst in the Sun

How does writing about writing cease to become writing?
How can introspection step back so far that you lose sight of yourself?
How do I stop myself from being the man who talks to himself oblivious of those watching him or the woman who’s got to the bottom of the news article and yet carries on reading into the adverts without noticing the difference?

And what about madness?
Who decides who is mad and who is sane?
Because, aren’t we all mad to one ounce or another?

What if I don’t list the normal examples of abnormality?
What do we lose anyway if we call ourselves mad instead of shinily sane?
What’s the difference between walking down the street talking to myself and chatting away to someone with a Bluetooth headset plugged into my earhole or shouting to the pigeons to stop cooing away in the morning when I’m trying to get a lay-in?

And what about madness?
Who decides who is mad and who is sane?
Because, aren’t we all mad to one ounce or another?

Why am I sitting here in the library feeling thirsty?
Why do I make funny clicking noises with my tongue when I’m thinking?
Why am I typing this at all when I know that really there’s only really me listening to myself to the extent that I know that my words have meaning as opposed to being randoms cut out of a colour magazine and stuck on the PC screen?

And what about madness?
Who decides who is mad and who is sane?
Because, aren’t we all mad to one ounce or another?

When will I realise who I am?
When will the raison drop into cookie dough to be cooked?
When do we all find out what we’re really here for instead of having to guess over and over in ever more ridiculous and convoluted ways that expose us to such shame and embarrassment that we forgo company and become a poet instead?

And what about madness?
Who decides who is mad and who is sane?
Because, aren’t we all mad to one ounce or another?

Where the brush for my hair?
Where’s the kind hand to brush the tangles from my life?
Where’s the sweet voice to tell me that everything’s alright and sing me to sleep on those nights when the shadows on the wall no longer look like those of the wardrobe or the chest of drawers or the stack of books or the teddy bear?

And what about madness?
Who decides who is mad and who is sane?
Because, aren’t we all mad to one ounce or another?

Who looks at me in the mirror?
Who can choose to frown or smile back?
Who can jump up from this keyboard when the typing is done, go outside, get a cool bottle of water from the shop and then just chill, chill, chill whilst slaking away the thirst and feeling the sun shining like a blessing on all our lives?

And what about madness anyway?
Why not decide yourself who is mad and who is sane?
Because, we might all be mad to one ounce or another but what the heck does it matter!