Poem submitted by Simon McKeown
We take away their freedom
When the ill become ‘acute’.
We take over,
Deprive them of their open mic.
We are the law
In uniform of T-shirt and blue jeans –
When we’re not in here.
We implement the Section to the word –
‘No treatment’ means containment and assessment,
No real care.
This place I work.
Coldness of battered front line –
Harsh battle line, in fact,
That’s fought in doorways, bathrooms,
Smoking rooms and on the wards.
The well-meaning hit the floor running.
The cleaner the best punch-dodger I have ever met.
Honesty the policy, my arse.
‘Mental health’, grey area indeed.
No way to know what’s wrong in someone’s mind.
Chemical Nirvana and the eye turned blind.