My condition has a name, yet we never seem to use it.
Introduce it, reproduce it, take its existence and refuse it.
You tell me it’s a hologram, a stutter in my brain.
If this isn’t real then what’s my source of pain?
More that three million cases in the United States a year,
Yet I’ve never found someone who relates to my fear.
More than three million cases in the United States alone,
But in this swelling song of sick, no one matches my tone.
You’d know the struggle too if you stood in my shoes,
Too scared to leave the house, yet suffering the blues.
Wanting desperately to dance, sing and play in the sun,
But no amount of joy can make this feeling come undone.
Three million cases from which doctors get their wealth,
Cause it costs money for us to maintain our mental health.
Three million cases, and there are people still
That insist I need some sunshine, not a ‘happy little pill.’
Three million cases proving something needs to change,
Three million cases praying for the healing rain,
Three million cases with a common thought to share;
It’s time for us to do something about the mentally impaired.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 