I'm
cursing while rolling down a hill,
Malfunctioning
with being severely ill;
What
warrants scrupulous attention
Is
the inevitability of some detention.
Locked
away in a state of extreme worry,
Cursing
- but not being a cowardly bully,
As
staff have control of all of the ward –
I
fight with my mouth, and not the sword.
I
sometimes get restrained for my ill-gain
But
I won't refrain from honour in I name
As
I am gentlemanly to both she and he
Who
go about their business respectfully.
A
needle with poison in for my arm
While
I am trying to keep sanely calm:
I
wobble slowly away to face my day
With
staff not distinguishing what I say.
©
Andrew Stevenson 02/03/2017
A past poem that I've re-edited. I was negative towards medication at this particular time in my life!
Thank you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.
Thanks for sharing Andrew, Wonderful and inspiring to read.
ReplyDeleteYvonne.
This poem is powerful, Adam! I can't imagine what it would be like to be in this situation, but I can feel your pain and frustration.
ReplyDeleteAdam! So sorry, Andrew! I hate when I do this! I'd blame auto prediction on my computer, but it was probably me making a connection with something my blogging buddy Adam posted.
DeleteIt's alright Louise, and sorry I missed commenting on your lovely response for so long! An easy mistake you made. Blessings to you. Love love, Andrew. Bye.
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