No Such Thing as a Stupid Question

Is each day a torment, or is life honey-sweet?
Are the parts that are twain ever destined to meet
in my soul, my irresolute soul?

Is this female hysteria, or simply convention?
Is it all just another exalted invention?
Have I dug myself into a hole?

Do I have a vocation for the mad and grotesque?
Have I wasted my youth in neurotic burlesque?
Am I really both tiger and cage?

Are these sorrows postmodern, or early Victorian?
Is there anything left to find greatness or glory in?
Will I ever start acting my age?

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