Your White Coat Makes Me Sick

Your White Coat Makes Me Sick.
Your prescription pad always
scribbling away, dispensing drugs to me,
onward and upward to stoned control.
You're not willing to talk to me -
i am so lost in the moment,
that breathless, vulnerable moment,
i forget to ask about this and that.
You move quickly from me,
discarding me to poor, drug taking life.
You are lucky my wits were not about me,
you are lucky i needed, hoped, for you to have
something for me. Something tangible.
Oh and you did have something for me -
no time, no asnwers, no thought.
If someone treats me like that in the
street they are as good as a gutted
racoon. White coat or none you best
think of your self now. my enemies are few,
pain is not even my enemy, it is my constant
companion - you, though, are now my enemy.
So congratulations you dead man in white coat,
you are enemy mine and i trifle not with common hells.