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We walk among hero’s every day.
And they are recognised,
But not merely enough.
They all fight on the same team,
They don’t always have the same uniforms,
But they fight for you, out of love.
They get paid sure, just about,
But it doesn’t keep them there,
It’s their compassion.

They suffer long hours, and bad pay,
Overworked, overwhelmed,
Something we need to refashion.
Yet they continue, fighting for your health,
Mending wounds, treating disease,
Doing their all, doing what they can.
They do it with a smile, a friendly face,
They do it agile, and with grace,
Yet they’re just human, not Superman.
They’re on the frontline, hands on,
They’re behind the scenes,
Each a cog, in a massive machine.
But this machine is built by living parts,
And they’re breaking more and more,
Physically, emotionally, everything in between,
Yet they carry on.
They continue to fight.
A battle never won.
Recognised and praised,
These are our heroes,
Recognised, revered, yet still unsung.
Joining a NHS Trust in a digital team, I saw the clinical teams first hand, as well as the admin and "back" staff. I wrote this on a break. Not really Proof read it.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2023
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!


give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat

Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly *****, with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
what you will find once you go
in caves of life and death

so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.

So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork

Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!

So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!

Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:

Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO  responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more

Dr. P.
I have a signed (by the Doc) heart-shaped pillow with
the surgical plan drawn on it
ogdiddynash Jul 2023
the doctor cautioned me…

no rough S?x my boy, your coeur très ancien,
ain’t up to the task, in fact, i urge you to forgo
the goings on you love to write about, leave them
words on the page, six to eight inches (!)  from the
tippy part of your…nose; for distance makes the heart
grow fonder, life longer, when you ticker gets that
‘lost that loving feeling’, keep it lost for now, cause
I no longer make home visitations and cancelled,
I did, the refills on your ****** scrip, keep your loving
confined to the twenty six alpa-bets, so you grow
old, well, alive, cursing my name repeatedly with
a strong *******, and I’m sure He’ll be listening,
cause I know He appreciates a **** good poem!
MV Blake Apr 2023
I don’t want to talk to angels,
Not for me, the bleeding priest.
I want my ****** doctor
So I can find some peace.

I want a ****** expert,
Not a hippie with some tea,
Charging excess for the karma,
And no money guarantee.

I can’t take ****** ginger,
It brings me out in hives,
And you can take the Echinacea
And stick it with the chives.

I want the ****** doctor,
Tired eyes and cynic smile,
Who’s seen it all before
And has my details on his file.

Pull out your cold machines,
Test me to the hilt;
Try to find what’s wrong with me,
Before I ****** wilt.

I don’t want to wait for callback,
I’m not interested in online;
It’ll only tell me that I’m dead,
Or I’m fine.
MetaVerse Mar 2023
Physician, jab thy sinfu' sel',
An' thereby sairly fare thee well,
Since jabs make well (I heard thee tell)
                  When health is sparse.
Go to the de'il an' go to hell,
                  Ye lyin' ****!

Ye de'ilish tadger, kin of Cain,
The Hippocratic Oath ye've ta'en
(Ye villainous hypocrite!) in vain
                  An' spoilt yer name,
An' a' for wealth and warly gain;
                  An' that's a shame.

The ******' lord o' ******' flies
Has twice ten billion zillion eyes,
An' craves to eat the flesh that dies,
                  An' sees ye clearly;
But God, who sees yer sprite (surprise!),
                  Still loves ye dearly!

Repent an' pray, ye rocket man,
For Christ forgives (it's in His plan)
An' could forgive yer whole ****'d clan
                  If ye'd but ask.
Perhaps ye can, perhaps ye can
                  't perform the task!
Zywa Oct 2022
The doctor wavers,

he sighs and looks through me, so --

I already know.
"De dokter" ("The doctor", 2008, Rutger Kopland) --- Collection "After the festivities"
GaryFairy Mar 2022
Dr Khan: I need to do lab tests on you before I can prescribe your meds
Me: But they are not narcotic, they are blood pressure and blood thinners etc
Dr Khan: it don't matter, I need to check your levels
Me: I feel fine though
Dr Khan: you have to, or I will get in trouble,and I'm not going to lose my license
Me: you can get into trouble?
Me: **** it, I don't need them
Dr Khan: but you will die if you stop taking the meds
Me: Then prescribe the meds
Dr Khan: I can't
Me: Killer!

Over a year later, my health seems better than ever. I went from things getting worse, to things getting better without the drugs and doctor
This is true
Gracie Anne Jan 2022
The urgent care is the nursery
Where I choose my seeds with thought.
The doctor is the gardener
Who knows how to fix what I’ve wrought.

She sows the seeds inside my skin,
Yet not with a trowel or ***.
She uses a needle and surgical thread,
With budding knots lined up in a row.

Then she leaves me with my tidy ground
And some knowledge on how I should care
For the lined up plot she’s left to me,
Whose potential I’m required to bear.

The deep rivet I slashed into my skin
Is where the seedlings take root.
The blood from my veins keeps them moist
As the new blossoms stand resolute.

But when the weather grows dark and dreary,
My sprouts need cover from the cold.
So I bundle them up with jeans and sweats
To protect them and let them take hold.

But despite the layers I pile atop,
The small spiny blooms poke through.
I run my fingers back and forth,
And marvel at how fast they grew.

Then after they’ve grown for fourteen days,
I return to the nursery at last.
The gardener plucks and prunes and picks
‘Til the wounds and the blooms come to pass.

So now the perennials have passed us by,
And the sprouts have been taken to bin.
The wound that watered my seedlings’ through,
Has left but a scar on my skin.
This poem was inspired through the stitches I received on my thigh due to self harm. When I wore leggings or sweats, the knotted string would poke through the material, reminding me of a garden.
Alienpoet Dec 2021
The feel of the pen
on the paper
the poet grabs a verse.

the dripping of morphine
the flow of endorphins
flow of electronic lines
across the monitor
let’s hope we don’t flatline

this mere mortal
needs a portal to the stars
this mere mortal needs
defibrillation to the heart
the way the poetry forms
in the lungs and the mind
the way life needs beauty
is sometimes unkind

I am the blood transfusion
the illusion
of poems
bells chime
Electrons flow
Radioactive  X-rays know
Poetry opens doors

I am the emergency poet
I will take flight
in flames
never shall I be tamed
But I will make that heart beat
and get you out of your seat
And on the road to recovery
and discovery

Because poetry heals
and steals back our songs
what could go wrong?
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