Notes from the Psych Ward

White walls,

white sheets,

days stitched small

by careful beats.

Needles, drips,

measured doses,

names of pills

spoken softly.

Time here loosens,

learns to bend.

Morning waits,

then comes again.

New faces pass,

some driftt out,

others root

in common doubt.

Doctors pause,

nurses smile,

the cleaner hums

an old tune awhile.

I speak more

than I once could,

words arrive

without a push.

Breakfast trays,

lunch at noon,

dinner comes

too late, too soon.

Some meals warm,

some just plain,

none are cruel,

none complain.

Therapy rooms,

paper, glue,

pencils worn

down to the blue.

We walk the halls,

slow and near,

learning how

to stand still here.

Nothing howls.

Nothing burns.

The mind rests

between its turns.

The world feels far,

but not unkind.

I am held

outside of time.

Strange to say,

and mostly true,

it is quiet here,

It is good here, too.

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Notes from the Psych Ward - Hello Poetry