Accusing mental health for robbing me
of inspiration, anger, angst or grief,
I lacked the impetus, creatively,
to exorcize those demons. No relief
was needed from a happy family,
with no one drinking, cheating, screaming pain
or gambling. Even promiscuity
was absent in the nest from which I came.

But I made two attempts at married life,
and had to give it up. I wasn’t fit
to compromise – I made an awful wife –
and came to learn alone’s appropriate
for me. I drink elixir now or swill;
there’s always grist for my poetic mill.