Health
My mind is unhealthy.
But my sickness is stealthy.
The doctors do their work.
But their treatment is murk.
As muddy as my mind.
There is so much to find.
There is still hope to figure out.
But for my benefit, I must not pout.
Instead I must reach into delirium.
And the doctors- I must stop fearing them.
And stop reaching for the hand.
That wants to hold me, for it would feel bland.
Until they work their primitive magic.
So I stop feeling tragic.
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