Sitting always with a pen tap tap tapping
To the direction of a long, tapered finger
Restless paper shuffles, eager to be filled
With medical jargon, words that have
No place in my heart and have never
Existed there, even now failing to mix the oily
Madness with pure liquid thought

Ask your questions of me then, and
I promise to do my best to answer
Watching my thoughts become trapped by
Your pen, locked into paper prisons between
Blue lines and then signed with a practiced
Flourish of fingers, sealing my fate as surely
And unwaveringly as countless others before
I disappear under your gaze, vanish amidst the
Oil pastels that line your office
Time stops here.

I wish I had that kind of control.