Being on a psychiatric ward has it's own set of rules, routines dictated by time, with very little allowances made.

BREAKFAST IN A SURREAL WORLD

Cereal, toast, jam, hot cup of

sweet steaming tea on the table

my world is crumbling away

my life I knew is dissolving

thanks to bitter tasting pills

recognition of the world surfaces

a place I have been to so many times

before warily trusting the still small voice

within I tread the smooth cigarette

burnt carpet underfoot to whisper

in hushed tones can I have some

breakfast I hear the authoritative

tone of breakfast finished at 9am

“Susan Holt- medication”

such rudeness from staff, employed for his bellow, not bedside manner.

what would Florence Nightingale say, it is a psychiatric hospital after all!

Here We Go Again

Once a week the room opened for such an occasion

chairs in a circle, me the victim of nameless faces peering,

enquiring of my every mood, action, thought

tea and biscuits distributed freely among those chosen few, not I

brown files scattered upon the table, autumn leaves on the ground

judgement made within this awesome room regarding my life,care needs

mostly I remain overwhelmed, other than my presence fail to participate.

In some circumstances other paitents seemed unaccountable for their actions, including stealing others property.

 Laundry Bag

Detained, sectioned admitted, dependant upon full assessment.

Belongings examined razor blades confiscated.

Hospital policy, no responsibility for lost property.

Washing removed frequently, guess who the culprit is.

Nursing staff shrug shoulders, provide proof they say, no accountability.

One person leaves frequently laden down shiny black bin liner.

Santa Clause no sweets, toys concealed there just patients socks, undies.