A diagnosis,
a prognosis,
follow
a suicide attempt
or two,
or three.

The voices
‘He tells me…
She tells me…
They tell me…’
A new world

revealed;
a world in
a troubled mind.
A world in
a boy so fine.

A boy,
a first born,
a long-awaited son,
a first born

waited for
in a hospital bed,
for three long months;
to keep him,
not lose him.

‘A patient patient’
they called
his mother,
as they pumped her
full of sedative.

The voices
‘He tells me…
She tells me…
They tell me…’
A different world.

A troubled mind;
where did it all go
wrong?
How can we put it
right?

Polly Stretton © 2012