This poem is crazy. The best ones are.
They go out as a sun and come back as a star.
I’m trying to fit this poem into a dream.
Here is my poem’s theme:
People are crazy so you can be loved.
Those people you hate because
You hate them? That’s why you’re loved.
Crazy thinking is why you were loved.
Not just mildly crazy. Crazy.
Remember when somebody kissed you?
Remember the mad, mad, love?
When somebody was in love with you?
You were loved. But who the hell are you?
I remember it well.
So please don’t tell
Me about crazy. The best love is crazy.
The best poetry—ask Socrates—is crazy.
People don’t believe in what they don’t want to believe,
And why, for one second, should they believe you?
I remember when you slid into the blue.
I still don’t know what to make of you.
It might be depressing, but it’s really nothing new.
You didn’t figure it out on your own, admit it.
Stop. Don’t broadcast your virtue. Quit it.
I had so much fun with the Trump administration
Because it made you mad.
People will make a teenage dance of the nation.
You teased me because you were hot for Obama,
But 2016 put an end to that drama.
Melania Trump’s looks made you sad.
And because of your abortion, you couldn’t hear
The words, pro-life. That term fills you with fear.
You couldn’t stop talking about “children in cages,”
Because you thought everything you hated
Had to be hated. You twisted, distorted, inflated
Every beautiful act which protected children
From sex-traffickers at the border,
Or professional murderers of the not-yet-born.
You had to calculate every calculating story
To be simple. No matter how complicated the story.
You were completely crazy; it seemed you
Loved me again—remember? when I was crazy, too?