I really find it such a stigma
That men to me are an enigma,
(That, greatly to my consternation,
I just cannot make conversation.)
Yes, though I call them sisters, brothers,
A mystery to me are others.
Even on the outside they’re a riddle,
So what on earth is in the middle?
Perhaps it could turn out to be
The very same as is in ME.
And so I’ll try as Buddha tried,
And MEDITATE and GO INSIDE.
Then others I should understand,
And, thwarting what the ego planned,
Silent, behold the work of God’s own hand.
Back to Poetry Gallery
Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.
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