My Friend, The Rain

A short collection of poetry from when I dabbled in the art. Personally, I didn't believe that poetry and I go together, but feel free to tell me otherwise, if you'd like.


7. A Catalogue of a Mad Doctor

A journal of his personal notes, three envelopes pertaining to this man’s latest court cases, handouts and yellowed papers that once represented this man in prestige. Photos and case files of his latest patients or rather victims as many see it. A man of sinister intrigue with horrible intentions. Renowned in his work and praised by his colleagues, hated and feared by those of his professional agenda. A lamp of stainless steel with pigments of long since dried blood. A darkened mahogany desk with many deep draws as red as fresh spilt blood. A picture on his desk of black and white showing two feminine figures; a wife and daughter perhaps?  A note lies upon his desk concealing a reference to religion. But wasn't the doctor atheist? His left draw is filled with dozens of scalpels, surgical scissors, hypodermic syringes, and dozens of medications. Blood clings to the tools like a newborn clings to its mother. The other draw is filled to bursting with old case files of his young patients with varying statuses ranging from released to terminated. Outside his second story window a hill with a cemetery with sickeningly enough the remains of his young victims. His room is littered with books, pictures and jars, jars to which their sinister contents we will not discuss. How cruelly disarming; a gramophone with recorded music such as “Spring” by Antonio Vivaldi, and Für Elise. Did this man really listen to this while he wrote his morbid findings? Or were these the final bits of music heard by his unwilling young subjects as he experimented on them? In his lower desk draw several bottles of scotch and whiskey aged to the point where one whiff of the stuff will knock a light weight for a loop. A picture of a large manor house hangs over the small fireplace in the room. A place he once called home perhaps? An hourglass sits on the mantle with the reaper inscribed on the bottom. This man, this doctor had an unusual infatuation with death, and he took it out on his unwilling subjects. This man continues to carry on unnoticed by the world with his morbid scheme laughing at the world from the safety of his room in the ‘Johnson Institute for Troubled Women and Youth.’ 

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