That lady

Is so loud and crazy.

When she's happy she's joy embodied and exploding.

When she's angry she's a firestorm burning what she's loathing.

She laughs and it resonates,

she cries and it penetrates.

On stage, a performer - to her passion we relate.

She wears her heart right there on her sleeve,

displays it like you wouldn't believe,

and she's so loud and crazy-

"I love her! She's crazy!" is what they always say.

But why is it crazy to be that way?

I write a hundred poems a day

And one hundred I throw away

Before they even reach paper, cuz we can't just say

the things we want to say.

Why is our language repression on simple things like joy or passion?

Why is art a special word for those of us who do expression?

When did it stop being simply what is human?

The bland rhetoric of those who hide their emotions,

The impersonal legalese,

And then there's the silence, the very worst of these

All taking over, default, for the afraid

While those who dare to feel, those who even speak

Are labeled as crazed.

What could be more insane?