Forensic Psychiatry Poem by James McLain

All four of these
eight year old girls have some form
of sexual addictions.
Of these four here in therapy
the two most like your sister got caught.
Putting the blame on themselves like they try to do.
Not being able or capably
and escape from the power of the word's that you
hear that I do.
Blowing the wind blows through the air
on your neck as it does
when it's cool.
Mother fills her belly with crack babies
addicted to meth
that dance at the end of mother's vanilla breasts.
Then after me off they go back to sleep.
On the job writing such work is.
Nothing but grace and her poise
where she stood out in the rain
looking, looking up to the sky
when oloof as she cleaned
his clock as they walked back and forth to school.
Everything overturning
what's outside on the head of his friend!
All four of these young boys
live up north in the snow and they can go on
but never feel just what it is like.