Excerpts from an as-yet untitled series of limericks about insanity
By Kori Waring

There once was a woman named Sonya
who suffered prolonged anhedonia.
She’d have been quite annoyed
that she couldn’t feel joy,
but was empty to near catatonia.   

Said a man whose psychology’s bruising
uttered nonsense the concept of choosing,
“Options A, B, and C
are no different to me—
they’re all nothing but bleakness suffusing.”

One day, when insanity’s tickle

warped Ruth’s brain, which was already fickle,
she caused her poor wife
unbelievable strife
through perverted misuse of a pickle.

To a well-meaning doctor Sam said,

"I think I would rather be dead.
I’m still terribly scared
of whatever’s Out There, 
but I’m more scared of what’s in my head."

Recall, when psychiatry’s schemin’

seems nothing but guesswork and dreamin’,
a Victorian doc
would’ve given you shocks,
and then locked you away with your demons.