Long white halls that echo with pain,
Where strait jackets lord and beckon with shame.
The therapy numbs and visits are feared,
You’re sane if you hallucinate here.
Patterns of colour and visions of gold,
Prophecy of end-times and things to behold.
Voices from the dead, alive in your head,
Where Lucid dreams are far from your bed.
Back to reality, therapy time,
Dragged through the chaos of psychotic minds.
The ECT a daily chore,
The result of looking through that door.
Brought back to a place in your youth,
Where the fantasies are induced.
Is it real? it seems so real!
Then a bolt from the blue has the Reaper revealed.
Cold hands grab your skull to wake you,
The Cuckoo’s nest now seems too true.
Your world becomes lobotomized,
There’s no one now behind those eyes.
Drifting like the drifting of a tune,
Back to your world that makes you swoon.
No telling what’s real anymore,
Just hallucinate and ignore.