Health And Psychiatry 101 Poem by James McLain

Heath and Psychiatry
by James McLain
--
the waiting room smells of money and water,
their white coats swish like whispers,
but there's nothing saintly here,
no gospel of healing, no salvation—
just the dull hum of fluorescent lights,
a clipboard of lies, and a clock
that mocks the hours you've wasted.
--
they call it care, but it feels like a scam,
Ignorant opinions shoved down your throat,
hands on your two insurance cards,
as if chemistry could replace
the agony of living,
as if insurance could buy
a soul free of fracture.
--
they weigh your words like gold,
but the scales are rigged,
your pain is their paycheck.
they can't see the math:
half of something
is better than all of nothing,
but they're too blind, too fat
on their cut of your misery,
to notice what they've stolen.
--
you're a ledger line,
a number to be balanced
before the door clicks shut.
you leave heavier than you came—
their cures like chains,
your freedom just another
bill unpaid.
As they arrive in their Mercedes Benz.
--