Chris Matthews.

The Ward.

 

They took me in upon the ward,

It was my doctor's whim;

The patients stared out through their doors,

With drugged up fix'ed grin.

 

Answer this and don't do that,

Is all that they would say.

No smoking in the corridors,

Then they took my cig away.

 

Outside now was a foreign world,

Where normal people played.

Secure in their box like homes,

All their taxes paid.

 

Dual diagnosis was on my card,

Which hung there by my bed;

Such drawn out words, spat around,

Would permeate my head.

 

My fellow patient, not content,

Rocked there in his chair.

Others sat quite motionless,

Minds without a care.

 

Illness falls without a word,

On even those thought strong.

Yet for those of us who do succumb,

Would say, "there's nothing wrong"!

 

What I would like, now to say,

Is the mind's an unknown place;

Complex neurones, synaptic nerves,

Do hide behind your face.

 

So when you feel a fevered mind,

And meet someone who's crossed the line,

Do not fear this unknown land,

Put your hand now firm in mine.

 

©Chris Matthews.