We whisper in the kitchen,
So as not to disturb his slumber,
Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe is all we do,
To let him sleep, not trigger the bomb.
The bomb goes by many names,
Anxiety, depression, possibly bipolar,
Send him plethoric at minuscule matters,
Strained relationships over scruples.
Not one to hit, but verbal iniquity,
Is what made mother stay,
Safety presumed, though in reality,
Arrows strike merely inches nearby.
Every word, though carefully articulated,
Actuated attack, demanded a win,
Eyebrows adhere permanent expression,
Of one who's relief cannot ebb.
Cannot make a decision with him,
Cannot choose a thing without,
No matter the ways you go about it,
We all suffer one man's lack of peace.