By Paul E. Schindler, Jr.
Up until this very day
I thought it funny folks would say
“I’m bursting with joy;” it seemed, before
Just a mushy metaphor.
But then it happened, as things do,
It means naught, until it comes to you.
The waves of joy keep bursting in,
There’s no place left, I’ve filled my bin.
Bursting with joy simply means
You’ve filled your socks, filled your jeans.
There is no place left to store it,
Nothing else you can do for it.
This is not a fate I chose,
Like drinking from a fire hose.
At others I must now aim
This is it, it’s not a game.
Pass it along, get it out,
Or scatter it all about.
If I do nothing I may burst;
For me that would be the worst.
Others though, would swim in joy,
Clap their hands, shout “O Boy.”
Not the best result for me,
But, as far as I can see,
Sharing joy with the world
Could be my heart unfurled.
Help! I don’t want to burst.
Let me shout out my joy first.