Mr Warren

Mr Warren

how anxious do you feel

from one to ten?

can I start at eleven please?

here we fucking go again,

yes, 

no, 

maybe,

we’ll see,

she’s a boil in the bag GP

undercooked

tasteless on the tongue,

she laughed at me 

when I was 

diagnosed delusional,

how dumb

can the apparent

educated be?

so, after more than 

just a little crisis

I ended up at The Priory,

like some washed up

B list celebrity,

it’s simple

you pay up,

then the

pills start to pop

now let’s make this clear,

they ain’t housing 

a higher class

of ‘insane’

money talks

bullshit walks

but we’re all the same

wherever 

we’re contained 

human trash

pariahs of bad taste,

the guys a nutter

it’s written all over

his face,

my

disintegration’s 

monitored

in accordance 

with

top-down 

legislation,

if you don’t fit their

medical mold

you’re sold 

unknowingly 

into 

their 

backward 

Psychiatry, and 

it’s a nick in

the lip that ain’t ever

going to heal

 

Sectioned.......... 

 

Mr Warren, 

please refrain 

from using the word ‘Cunt’

our staff will not 

tolerate such abuse,

as they continue to

abuse me with their

Temu therapy,

you can’t make 

this shit up,

I’d react if the drugs 

administered 

didn’t leave me 

– fucked

I feel like a bastard son

born to no one

like a port in a storm

all ordnance gone

 

Bon Voyage..........

 

my ship didn’t sail

it sunk on departure,

the Champaigne bottle

didn’t smash on the hull,

it collided with my skull,

I never really saw myself

a sailor, more an old sea dog,

unfortunately 

that never transpired 

so now I sit ‘high and wired’ 

looking over the vast oceans

separating me 

from the outside world,

my bed is clammy 

the sheets are cold

these corridors

have become 

my Yorkshire Dales

without the cliffs,

streams 

and nature trails

 

Acceptance..........

 

on a cloudless day

come 2:31pm

the sun reflects off 

the adjacent building’s window,

those who stay in pyjamas all day

remove their slippers 

and stretch their toes

in the warmth of the sun

as it radiates  

off the linoleum floor,

it’s a beautiful reminder 

of life on the other side 

of the psych-ward door,

tell me, am I cured?

it’s as if I’ve been 

sentenced to life

when the only 

life taken was my own,

it was an unintentional 

self-sacrifice, I’ve lost

my home and wife

and worst of all 

I don’t really care,

but ........ 

there’s no doubt 

about it,

I’d rather face 

the electric chair

than live out the rest

of my days with no

soul to bare, with no

gauntlet to run

when my only 

exit will find me

hung

from the ceiling 

oh ... yes!

that’s far

more appealing