Open Mic: The Medical Subject

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   Topic = Write a poem on a Medical Subject
I am the medical subject.
Though it might not seem so to the general public,
My problems are complex like a federal budget,
There’s a terrible subtext, but I keep it hidden away
Spills out with every sleight and cynical phrase,
Keeps building up ‘til it becomes a ripple of rage
Cascades as a tsunami, washes like a limitless wave
I mimic the sane...but it’s as fake as Botox
And sci-fi films with cyborgs and faceless robots
It’s an ancient torment, rattling my sanity
Hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles
It haunts my family, and taunts us happily
Without any physical marks of dauntless savagery
The reports are fallacy, thoughts of cohorts
Tragically sent by rouge courts to badger me,
The symptoms of a system that fails the victims
With deficiency much deeper than that AIDS affliction
It eats at me with a gentle shrillness
Hatching into larvae of my mental illness
I feel it crawling, slowly, constant
Wholly tortures my lowly conscious,
They’ll call me bonkers, as pompous prospers
Like they ‘can’t believe he’s the son of doctors’
Causing gossip, hoard and swap it, more can profit
As they sell my soul with every torpid topic,
Maybe not, as paranoia’s a crescendo 
With each allegro the tempo in my head grows,
It felt cold, but the rhythm’s spinning rapidly
Inducing a tornado, delivered it to capture me
I’m dancing to the melody of silence,
As the wind wisps across my eyelids,
They can’t diagnose this; can you read it on a monitor?
Would be better off with a clairvoyant and barometer,
They can’t trick me, I still avoid the moniker
Never been one for labels like economy ranges
In supermarkets, because that’s who the stupor targets
And makes you look on best friends as they were possibly strangers
Waiting for an interlude, need to appease the sponsors
Otherwise they’ll cut me off, refuse to feed my monsters
I’m losing touch, submerging into my own world
And won’t allow you access without hand signs and code words
It’s hard to access healthcare under these circumstances
When you’re expecting posturing crossed with certain glances
And every aspect confirms your suspicions entirely
Like when the last company didn’t make a decision to hire me
There’s a sinister irony given my current occupation
That I’m paying the cost for a false inoculation
It spreads like a virus to a wider population
There is no immunity, can’t find an ethical subset
In this diseased principality we’re all medical subjects