02
Nov
10

Not Ready To Be Cured


       Say, shrink, did you hear the word?
       In the worlds created by my mind you don't get to play god.
       I'm not quite ready yet to be cured.

       Danger? What danger? Now who's the one of us being absurd?
       Hell, what I do's no worse than driving down the esplanade.

       Say, shrink, did you hear the word?
       I'm going self-insured, and you won't be to whom I'm referred
       nor will all those meds you've prescribed be getting the nod.

       I'm not quite ready yet to be cured
       of whatever your DSM IV scientifically calls my kind of bird.

       Anyway who gives a damn if a girl comes off a little bit odd?
       Say, shrink, did you hear the word,
       seeing through a glass darkly doesn't mean my vision's blurred?

       So I'm out on my own now, you can call off your sanity squad—
       I'm not quite ready yet to be cured.

       What time's it there? I'll think straight by November the third.
       In the meantime poetry offers a reasonably acceptable facade.

       Say, shrink, did you hear the word?
       I'm not quite ready yet to be cured.

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1 Response to “Not Ready To Be Cured”


  1. 2010.11.03 at 1:52 am

    I do like the tone of this poem and its sentiment…the repeating line added emphasis to the overall content of the poem.


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formal attire

short of breath

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