committed

Sitting on the edge of the bed, that
same damn song stuck in my head;
I wait for my doctor to come talk to me instead.
I hear him fumbling with my medical chart.
This is my room yet he doesn't knock,
and in he bounds with a sudden start.
With a monotoned voice he asks
"What can I do for you today?"
Then I ramble all that is wrong,
damn there is so much to say.
He doesn't look like a doctor, but
more like my Great Uncles really old dog.
Opps, that's what I am thinking, as I spit my blog. Writing, writing, writing. Bad iridescent lighting.
Then a long pause, let's check you out.
Ears, nose and throat, cold stethoscope, I almost shout.
Again he is writing, will he ever stop?
I must be really sick. Wads of tiny papers
shoved at me, he bounds for the door,
this will do the trick.
A little bit of this, a little bit of that,
which this is for that, which of that for this.
No explanations. R.S.D., depression, pain relief, infection, medication adjustment and possibly
seizure disorder suggestions.
Then it's to the pharmacy, my least
favorite of the daily trips.
Theres that angry look, as she pretends
to count my slips.
"How much are these laxatives?" I ask.
Thinking maybe they're for free, for she's not
looking up at me, but talking to her co-worker
of all my piercings she can see.
So here I am with a plastic pill box,
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday....marked on the caps.
Way overly medicated and they wonder why I take so many naps.







I am sooo fucking sad and lonely these days...