[Let’s stage this fury like a modern protest-poem performance—half slam, half dark blues sermon.] [Style: Spoken-word / industrial blues fusion. Setting: A dim room with a flickering fluorescent light. One mic. One stool. Projected behind you—medical forms and denied-claim letters scrolling like static.] ⸻ [Intro – low hum of hospital monitors fading into a slow, distorted bassline] (I speak, almost whispering) “I need a gawddamned diagnosis…” (Watch ’em just write it up as psychosis.) White walls echoing back at my every sigh. Clipboard gods who never answer why. I need a gawddamned diagnosis (Watch em just write it up as psychosis!) All my problems, And All this pain “All this unnecessary pain…” Continues on for someone else’s gain! So i keep Wishing for some validation (And a halt to all this medical oppression!) I’m Praying for a miracle, some relief from Daily life’s strain (And someone with some empathy) And me Free from all this pain [Bridge – rise in tempo, heartbeat rhythm on a floor tom] It’s your job to be the solution, But you only talk in substitutions. Left me for forty five minutes, in some little room, Could just tell me if I’m facing impending doom! And still—you tell me nothing! nothing. Nothing I can use. [Chorus – full voice, raw] To explain why we are all still hurting When we didn’t get to choose. Insurance kings just line their pockets, And our Doctors deal in legal blues. Forgot their oath, forgot their heart, Forgot the ones they swore to start…. healing No Answers are forthcoming Just antidotes i dont want to hear Its your job to be the solution Not mongers to prescribe fear But you just provide excuses (and no absolutions!) So I sit in your corners, from morning till noon For a five minute session, in some fucking room. And still you talk but say nothing Nothing i can use To explain why im still suffering When I didn’t get to choose. Or… [Chorus – full voice, raw] To explain why we are all still hurting When we didn’t get to choose. Insurance kings just line their pockets, And our Doctors deal in legal blues. Forgot their oath, forgot their heart, Forgot the ones they swore to start…. healing. “And still those White walls echo every sigh. Housing Clipboard gods, who never answer why.” [Breakdown – whisper to growl] Validation’s a privilege for those who can afford to pay for it Silver threads in white coats’ seams, sounds legit (Doesn’t it?) Stacking bills, selling dreams of healthy people To a world full of illness and misery Insurance companies will pad their pockets With Doctors dealing drugs that don’t actually heal And forgetting about the oath they took And how to actually feel. Your Validation is a privilege (Reserved for only those who can pay) So that They make a small fortune (in as little as a day.) Lining doctor’s coats with silver, they Cram as many in their waiting rooms as they can get. And they are Making a killing off of all of it. “I….need….you…” [Chorus – full voice, raw] To explain why we are all still hurting When we didn’t get to choose. Insurance kings just line their pockets, And our Doctors deal in legal blues. Forgot their oath, forgot their heart, Forgot the ones they swore to start…. healing [Finale – spoken, slow, defiant] So I sit in your corners, still breathing, still unheard. You can’t code my pain in numbers. You can’t bill what’s not earned But you do it anyways, knowing you too, are only human. My Body a battlefield, my brain a bureaucracy Just Trying to understand the medical hypocrisy [Chorus – full voice, raw] To explain why we are all still hurting When we didn’t get to choose. Insurance kings just line their pockets, And our Doctors deal in legal blues. Forgot their oath, forgot their heart, Forgot the ones they swore to start…. healing “So Doc, whats our Diagnosis?” “Human”
