Psychiatrists Poem by Anne Marie V. Kennedy

Bitter pills, they say
You can’t even digest them.

It’s not a stigma; it’s a business

Making untold billions
Based on trickery
And lies.

But then there are those times
When you are just too sick;
Your body is just to tired to move
Or to stay still.

Paralyzed and restless at the same time.

And that’s when they know they have you.
For good.

Psychiatrists who do not practice medicine,
But greed.

No one cares about you anyway,
So they figure they can leave early on Fridays,

Leave you waiting for a return phone call for days,
Even if it does say “URGENT”.

It’s still not enough to squeeze
The humanity out of those
Who administer to the poor.

Because they know (it is common knowledge, I think)
That they are doing you a favor
By seeing you at all.

And you won’t report them,
Because you are far too sick
To know how to figure it out.

And far, far too demoralized.

So, they’re happy to hand out pills
But only when it’s convenient
And they are getting paid for their time.

You are the only one left without recourse,
Without option,
Without help.

No wonder there are so many suicides.

(August 22,2008)