I go in the fire
Getting burned by the earth.
Sent to sleep
Surrounded by dirt.
I wake to the plain view
Of eyes, unforgiving.
Demanding and questioning
"What are you! What is due!"
It devours
My heart and soul, while
My mind is left
To stretch apart.
The vision splits,
Red, and black.
The senses are dull
Yet pain stays for laughs.
The world begins to
Spasm in splotches
Till it turns into a
Dark office.
"How do you feel?"
"What do you think?"
Answer the questions
Is what he thinks.
Poor man in white
With glasses round, and head square.
Thinks answers will fix the
Minds despair.
Writes and
writes and
writes
In his small handwriting,
In that small notebook of his.
One notebook of hundreds.
Already judging what
Everything means.
Making the questions that make his job-
Useless.
All the doctor wants is to cure
His patient.
Even if the cure is poisoning the soul.
All the patient wants is to
stop the scraping
Of pencil to paper.
Even if that means ending his time
With the doctor
-somehow.
Somehow-pencil.
Somehow-hands.
"I see you haven't been as troublesome this week . . ."
Somehow-pencil.
Somehow-throat.
"The shock therapy is working wonderfully, but . . ."
Somehow-doctor.
Somehow-shove.
"The other patients don't seem to be responding to you, perhaps more time with . . ."
Somehow-window.
Somehow-break.
". . . isolation and double your regular dose."
The mind is callous.
The words reach his head but they
No longer leave a wound-
Or impression.
The mind is callous.
And in rage.
It can no longer receive
What it must take to survive.
The mind snaps-
Along
with
the
Pencil.
