
The doctor was never very good at treating illnesses. Always his patients suffered, for what he deemed to be a good cause: under the wrath of God, the mentally ill should never be alive.
Rated: Fiction T - English - Poetry/Drama - Words: 223 - Published: 08-21-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3052146
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My heart cries out
In loneliness
The suffocated screams
Speak out to me
And I let all but my eyes
Die away
I see the world
Only in logic
I see the world
In all the flaws
That no one else could see
I am the pain dealer
I prescribe 300 mg of heartbreak
I prescribe a little 20 mg of sorrow too
A little anger
A little fire
In your mind
I let all the mental illnesses
Flare and siege all but joy
Joy will no longer be ordered to you
I say the medicine isn't healing
Let you suffer
Let you scream
Let you anguish in agony
Scar all those who wronged you
Kill all those feelings inside
I say this will help you
Because I have a Ph. D
In knowing what shade of blue
Your scar tissues are
Hollowed out the bones
The veins had their death
No longer breathing all of the world inside
Your mind shall be erased
White slate
White as a fang
From the rattlesnake
I picked up from the Mojave
As hot as it gets there
I can't sweat
Because I gave all my thoughts
Donated to the cause
Of the world curling up
On its knees
And only can I hear your shriveled soul
Plead away
That God wants us all
To pray
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