passing the mailing district line

No juice.
The little plastic containers,
With peel off foil.
The surroundings rounded by the
Sounds of unison,
Telling on me that I did it again.
Drank a juice.
And shouldn’t have.
I see in their voices disappointments,
Faces nameless, except for loudspeakers,
And doctors and clergy, and henchmen,
All asking aloud off little note papers.
Names like Bob Dylan, Harry Henderson,
And Heinz Ketchup. All crazy names,
Laughing no more when I get to drink
Little sips of their laughter, silenced,
By their lies to me, telling truths which
Lied to them, and failed to make sense
Of their world. Not for them, or when
I was on the road, waiting for the time
To come when I was acceptable to return.
Which I was never

(in the asylum)