In The Psychiatrist's Office
In The Psychiatrist's Office


It’s a talk, a long talk
Among pigeons that sit on a live wire waiting to be electrocuted
On a rainy day, short circuits, blown out fuses, at play
Brain chemicals move like volcanic eruptions
The slow hot lava spreading like indefinite waves
It’s not a mental illness, it’s a mental injury.
The jargon of psychosis has new meanings
People talk, talk, talk on Ted Talks, in subways,
In mosquito-infested streets, in schools, in hospitals,
In by-lanes where there is no such thing as healing
Talk moves to turbulence, a jet suspended in thin air
Monosyllables move
to monotone, technicolor changes to monochrome.
Life is an abysmal well of sertraline with a dash of theine diazepine
A potent mix of life and death hanging in the entrails of insanity
Outside the window, the wind is sane, trees retain their personality,
The color of the sky dissolves in the indigo of the sea,
Everything is in perfect tune and harmony
The air conditioner hums a well-rehearsed symphony
The ceiling fan dances to the tune of orchestrated air
The heels hurt after consistent rubbing against the floor
You know you are a tired ballerina who can dance no more.