Harmecuticals

I work within the crisis team,

Where clients don’t have names.

Just diagnosis and their numbers,

Hence their heads are hung in shame.

Their details up on whiteboards,

Medications for review.

The homeless and the desperate,

Most seasoned and some new.

The Workforce tap their notes up,

Feeding diagnostic lies the ink of truth.

And doctors look right through me,

When I ask them for some proof.

I work within the crisis team,

Who visit clients bearing meds.

To dampen out emotions,

And gag the voices in their heads.

Wearing lanyards giving leaflets,

And so few who truly care.

With ears that will not listen,

To stories far from just or fair.

Yet trauma makes such sense to me,

When I stop by to sit and listen.

And suddenly some saddened eyes,

Look into mine and glisten.

Through their haze of medication,

That harmecuticals create.

I pray my conversations,

Are not too little or too late.

As I gently tell those on my watch,

It makes sense to feel their pain.

As life has usually been cruel,

And there is no measure of sane.

I work within the crisis team,

And struggle to stay calm.

When questioning the morality,

Of iatrogenic harm.

I try to make a difference,

In this world that’s full of pain.

Where meds are understanding,

And where no one stands to gain.