I'd like to share a poem I wrote many years ago. It includes a theme I don't write about anymore - but I still keep these works around - like echoes, like reminders. It's a string wrapped around my finger.
Rainbows wouldn't be as brilliant or awe-inspiring if it were not for days of blown tires, lost keys, painful goodbyes, and tears that well up in the eyes, but don't always fall.
I laugh, without abandon - but couldn't without counter moments of letting go when I can't imagine how.
My poems have evolved through time - some limp, some crawl, some call out glories from the rafters. And some whisper in dark corners. I enjoy mixing past with present. They meet and mingle and exchange phone numbers. It's what is Jimmy Broccoli - the happy, the inspirational, the sad, and the absolutely devastating.
This poem is "The Doctors Were Wrong". It was written during a time when mental illness wasn't discussed, except in quiet corners among friends - and we only spoke in whispers.
I hope you enjoy it.