They follow me quiet, they follow me loud,
in the wallpaper, in the crowd.
One in the ceiling, one in my bed,
the one in the mirror just nods his head.
They adjust my meds when I try to sleep,
then count my blinks and laugh too deep.
They wink in sync with the hallway lights,
and polish my fears before every night.
The orderlies are watching me–
with smiles too wide and too cavity-free.
They clip my thoughts like clipped ID,
and hum my sins in minor key.
They took my shoelaces, gave me praise,
for not chewing glass the last three days.
One wears cologne that smells like fate,
another took my pulse and called it “late.”
They say I’m “stable,” then lock the door,
while one whispers riddles through the floor.
They nod and jot, but never speak,
except in screams when the hour is bleak.
One has tattoos of all my fears,
another collects my shredded years.
And when they think I’m finally tame,
they’ll brand my soul with a hospital name.
I asked one, “Do you see the clowns?”
He smiled and gently jotted down.
Now every wall has eyes that beam,
and none of this is just a dream.