Good News, Bad News Poem by Robin Bennett

My doctor walks in so green and sterile
asking if I want the good news
or the bad news first. For me,
can there really even be any good news?
If so, she visits so sporadically what
could it possible be?

I'll take the good news first, I say
In his matter of fact tone, he
swears I am lucky to be alive at all.
That's the good news? I brace for
the bad news now.

After decades of emotional abuse,
he wonders how I function (not very well)
how I never became suicidal or homicidal (it did cross my mind)
I'm mentally beaten up, torn down, and abandoned

Truth is, I don't really function at all.
Depression is my shadow, dark and
mimicking me. That reflection in
the mirror screams the truth.
Sadness, and about as useless
as the moon during the day.

All of the pills in the world cannot
fix me. Therapy is not the answer.
Years of torment have made me
weak, frightened and left me
with nothing.

I can't leave, I'm stuck and everyone
knows it. I have no voice and command
no respect. All I have are words, with a gross
income to pay for a bag of groceries.