The Narcissus-Prisoner

This tat­tered fold of the mad­man’s kiss:
Yel­low-flavoured moments of bile and flesh …

The slow, flash­ing fall of a doc­tor’s knife,
The white-walled rooms of end­less days …

The tables by day with their sheets alight,
Soiled with blood and anger by eve …

In the curl­ing pages a mind slips away,
In a sparkling screech, this soul falls to void …

And with each new drug I gig­gle and ask,
How came they to think they’re help­ing me last?

First it was Hal­dol, now Prozac is king –
With its warm lit­tle halos and a feel-good sting,

Anti-psy­chotics, uppers, down­ers for all,
Not a lick of your love, just demands to get well!

So, vic­tim or vic­t’mized, which was your game?
Did they ever find cures for apa­thy’s shame?

But methinks I for­got, you’re per­fect­ly fine,
Just say I’m in treat­ment and your sins disappear!

Ten long years hold­ing this fam­i­ly at odds,
Each moment a lie that you’re hap­py with you;

A decade’s ani­mat­ed frus­tra­tion has passed,
Shap­ing your loved so you don’t have to change …

If lessons are truths,
Then let mine be heard:

Hell is an emp­ty house – haunt­ed by those who cared.

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