Psychiatry’s Grinder

Ground in the grinder of psychiatry’s woes,
a life that’s spent wondering where it all goes.
Are you staff or patient? Who really cares;
we all leave that place with the same blank stares.
Ground to a pulp by the machine we can’t see,
a victim of circumstance we all will be.
None leave that place that have not been scarred;
a prison of the mind, with lock and guard.
Psychiatry’s dungeon, still breaking souls;
abandon all hope all who enter these holes.
A dungeon it is, if one without keys;
a dungeon’s a place you’re brought to your knees.
To bow down to a system, cold and bare
that punishes you just because you are there.
Where justice holds fast – outside the door
and nobody dares to tally the score.
A system of free folk turned into drones,
and under their weight society groans.
The cost is so great in dollar and soul,
but spat out the end is nobody whole!
So where do we come from, where do we go?
I only know that we reap what we sow.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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