Well
I never
Happy to be mad
Mad too be happy
This might be crazy
That maybe fitting
Ante this and ante that
Given fighting chance
And unbelievable odds
Of uncounted to won
Beat up and up beat
Pleased as punched
As if
To be found in rare form
A sure fire Job
Employing awe
Mourning and knight
A play full
Of blowing people’s mines
Seeing red
And knot blue
Sow far fetched
As inconceivably making merry
Like straight out gay
Tickled pink
In efface of one’s enmity
Having enough
If only
Mad happy
Pleas
To get with it
Awe the rage
The origin of this poem emanates from a conversation where I found myself declaring an intent to be the happiest angry person and angriest happy person in the world. 
Such paradoxical conundrums are emblematic of my life experienced internally and presented to the world in awe its parent confusion. Such a paradox is close kin to my persistent existence as both an intensely serious person and a person practically incapable of being serious. I feel that I have a fare grasp of the systems of pain in plays in this world. I also feel a keen sense of the unbearable lightness of being. In short, perhaps too short, my life is weigh existential. I have a deepening appreciation for anger, even rage. I strongly suspect that to be a highly conscious person on this planet might require an intimate relationship with outrage. 
Outrage can be a profoundly humanizing experience, providing energy to respond to palpable injustices. Also, simply experiencing the anger over loss present in all injustices, whether mourned passively or actively, seems to represent a form of connection, even solidarity, with persons experiencing injustice. May my madness deepen my connection to others and synergize my commitments and capabilities to struggle for justice for all.
