Increasingly, I’ve cherished a belief:
Though agony can fuel an artist’s voice,
unhappiness is actually a thief
of honesty, and takes away the choice
that every great creation must contain.
Is mania a natural consequence
for hours spent enthralled in matching pain?
Must high be gotten through a low expense?
I’ve studied you (I must – you will not leave)
and I have found you boring when you’re down,
but when you’re high and happy, I perceive
your smile’s more obnoxious than your frown.
Your moods are evidence the theory’s right
that only healthy souls can dance in light.