It is funny
How life can change,
How people change…
And yet change –
So strange –
Consistent as the seasons…
Is the only constant I know…
Right now, I should be studying
The stapedial reflex and
The anatomical basis of deafness
Instead I’m listening to Prince
And writing poetry (again)
And all this advice
About what’s a good life
What’s wrong, what’s right
Is just white noise and purple rain,
These words all that’s keeping me sane
From the cadavers and scalpels…
The floor stained yellow with formaldehyde.
I see my reflection, just for a minute,
Dark eyes, limp hair, they should cut me open too.
Don’t get me wrong
I still love coffee
And people are still ill..
But medics offer little comfort, you see
(And believe me I’ve tried),
Too busy skipping
From one case to the next…
A portfolio for the management
Just another corporate claw.
And while I’ve no fucking clue
Where I go from here
And god knows there’s no living in poetry
This is the best I know how
To offer comfort, and support,
In this labyrinth of suffering.