Sometimes I call myself crazy
But I think I know what's truly crazy:
The man who takes sticky notes
And a pen whose ink smears
Onto the top of a parking structure
4 stories high
Who yells at the noisy lights
Whose cacophonous, showy "light"
Blinds and hushes the symphony
In the night sky.
Who sits in the corner of a parking space
Glancing now and again at the moon;
the reason he came all this way
The blushing, beautiful moon
He is not crazy.
Who's crazy are those who refuse to do the same.
For their passions, their inspiration, their gods or goddesses, their loves.
And if you do not agree with me,
Well, then I'd rather be crazy
If I can continue in this "maddening" love.
