Me Institutionalized?

 When I was sent to the rubber room

I had no idea that the doctors and other staff wore straight jackets.


Mind boggling as it is,

they absolutely should be

drawing their needles and 

multi-colored pills

upon my waking 

in drab quarters 

complete with a bathroom

that has no locks.


They think I will somehow 

try to hurt myself

behind locked doors

like trying to 

jam my finger

down my throat 

in efforts to choke 

on  my own vomit.


My meals don’t exactly

consist of steak and eggs.

Try green-tinted pizza, 

and slimy spaghetti

writhing in questionable watery tomato sauce.

And the arts and crafts room?

Oh, please don’t get me started!

I’m a little too old for crayons and finger paints!


I should have never

revealed that I wanted to off myself

like a dictator 

such as the Queen of Hearts

of my own life.

It was never my life 

to do such a thing, anyway.


Now, I’m here,

singing “poor me”

to the resident psychiatrist

about this shit hole place

filled with shit hole people

crazier than me.



God, I love doing my 72 

in here!

Not!


So, here I am

afraid to return

to the outside world again

to face the fucking day.


I’m just fucking fine.


One day at a time.


That’s what they tell me

as they send me packing

with benzos galore to finish

before facing the day becomes an issue.



Appearing back into the world

like a princess at her first ball

Exchanging my tattered institution rags

for at least something more decent.

I face the day.


With courage?


Probably not.

Maybe.

Definitely not.


I’m back here

unencumbered by institution walls.

I bleed out insanity

still crazy from the  bullshit experience

designed to make me better.

Sanity was never really my thing, anyway.


-Laurie Perrone

Copyright 2024

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