My Final Cry for Help, Answered


You are no saint, no marter-
you will not save me with your tranquility.
You are a conspiriator,
deceptive in your efforts to make me well,
and I have chosen to fall victim to you…
to look to you to cure my ails,
but you do not numb my pain-
you enhance the troubles and
you make me numb to nothing and everything else
adding only more burdens to bear.
All of which you claim to treat,
to strip me of and make me whole.

Perhaps it is my distress
that completes me; that IS me.
And you will dull my sense of self,
make me a drone, robotic in skill.
Once useless, lifeless I am cured-
and you claim another success,
bury the evidence piece by piece
until instability ceases to exist…
until a comparison cannot be drawn.
You are the epitome of Hitler’s dream:
elusive, lucrative genocide.

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