Sycophants united under
paisley corridors,
Mumbled words creep through
pursed lips
Sufferers and saviours divided
by doors.
Meek creatures curled up with
clipboards,
Unsteady hands scribble
unstable words
Like the lines on the skin, deeply
scored.
Approach the desk, request the
form,
Don’t want a panic reel it
back
My thoughts are locusts see
one, see the swarm.
Behind the safety glass the
office robot asks,
“Mr Adler will see you now”
Empty eyes rise up to look for
the man with the mask.
The plastic stoicism that
draws you in,
Relaxed lips let the tongue
coerce the words from your throat,
Before they make your mask to
contain the mental din.
I will not cosy up to clean
smiles.
I am the loathing neurosis that
hides.
I am my problems they keep me
alive.
The hypocrisy swirls around my
head,
The hollow sockets of doctors
push the thoughts in
I dragged myself here but left
my honesty in bed.
His questions hang like a hook
on a suture,
Even silence leaves me alone
and exposed
Therapist: the shorthand for
rabid pursuers.
My heart pushes desperately to
induce caring delirium,
Turn the talking into physical
displays of internal suffering
I push it down while my leg
bounces violently to make it clear to him.
Pushed in a corner seat his
hand comes out in gentle outreach,
A low hanging face asks me “do
you think this would help?”
I couldn’t even answer, my
thoughts deafened his speech.
“Don’t think we’ve forgotten,
we’ll be in contact in a few weeks”
