With intriguing hints

Okay, I got it wrong,
it ain’t that old-style
manic depressiveness
and it ain’t
the new-fangled
bi-polar neither.

I haven’t been fixated
on sex in weeks, or
years – what’s sex anyway?
I don’t talk fast or slow
enough to qualify,
I just yell. And I ain’t

speeded up
or slowed down that I
recollect – why, hell,
I just poke along
like the slow ol’ boy
I always was. Sure,

I loose my temper
now and then, who
don’t? But I wouldn’t
be terribly fussed if
I didn’t never find
it again. So what’s

supposed to be
biting my ass? I don’t
know; it ain’t paranoia
insofar as I can tell;
I don’t feel nobody
is out to get me

like anywhere
near as much
as I used to.
Goddamn it,
probably I’m just
depressingly normal

with intriguing hints
of all the things
that I seem to be.
© I.D. Carswell