The Mental Health Crisis

The Mental Health Crisis

The waiting list is six months long, the hotline’s on hold,
The therapist takes insurance you don’t have, the story’s getting old.
You fill out forms that ask you to rate your pain from one to ten,
As if despair came in degrees, as if they’d call you back again.

The pills they tried last March made the ceiling spin for weeks,
The ones before that killed your drive, your sleep, your will to speak.
Nobody tells you healing’s supposed to feel like drowning twice,
Like paying for your suffering with someone else’s dice.

The stigma sits beside you like a second skin you wear,
People tell you “just be positive” like sunshine fixes prayer.
You smile because it’s easier than explaining what it costs
To carry your own weather system built entirely of loss.