Doctor from hell
that a tongue applicator can tell  
his manner is there only to her again
that he surely knows before she goes **
to register her with a tireless gaff
that he examines her throat and let it only in the bay

You are very sick,
The clock ticks,
No hope, the doctor says,
Friends and family pray,
Night and day.
A miracle happens,
You take a U turn,
You get better
And better
God heals.
The doctor sends the bill,
He gets paid.

The doctor says I’m ill
Unable to function so they give me a pill
Still unable to get rid of this condition
But trying to fix me seems to be their mission

My muscles are weak
Poisoned by those drugs, I can hardly speak
Is this cure supposed to be this bad?
Because if this is I’d rather be mad

There was dancing at the funeral;
wild, wind-swept and whirling.
A testament to a life spent unfurling sails and fighting for a better future.
"She was a doctor, your mama" as if I didn't know. "One of the first to say,
'Man, stop calling me a girl,
I'm a professional
and hell, I'll swear like one too.'"

She started her family in this city,
and made every borough within arms reach.
Patients were closer than cousins,
and my aunts spent less time here than the women's wing of the ACLU.

Black is not a way to mourn, but to warn.
A message shouting "Stand clear, this soul is moving on."
Best prepare afterlife, cause this one made a difference here,
and she'll sure-as-**** start something over there.

Well, I've come up with my diagnosis,
And I believe that you are infected.
Yes, indeed, it's a parasite, in fact,
But don't you worry. It can be dealt with.
Unfortunately, it cannot be cured.

Do you perhaps remember feeling
That you could do anything as a child?
Do you remember internalizing
The confidence and power that youth brought?
Do recall those sensations?

I can predict the rest. Someone stopped you,
Told you to think realistically.
Put you down, causing you to doubt yourself.
Doubt. That is what you are infected with.
And as of then, it has been part of you.

I record my thoughts like a diary
I do so in the form of poetry
And I read through them a lot, you see?
To remind myself of these feelings
…
I don’t think that’s healthy