Have you ever had a doctor say “I believe you are exaggerating” or, “are you sure it is that bad?”. You reply in a half gone voice taken by days without sleep, astounded by the wall you will to have to climb “I-i-i-i-i don’t k-k-know”. As the words leave my mouth your faith of help crashed. The doctor smiles as if you am fine. As if you will not go home and cry, maybe go to that small metal box you hid in your closet you pretend doesn’t exist. You rattle it and a familiar sound greets you, it begs you to come back, you want to let it back. You know it will sting, sting worse than you remember. All of a sudden you snap back, you are still in the small room that smells like bleach and incense. The doctor closes his file on you, filled with you in black and white. He still has the sickening smile on his face, and says “we will need a follow up six weeks. “You are still off in the distance “numb”
This might not really be poetry