Great Dramatic Poetry

Therapist Shit
As I saunter into the clean, sterile waiting room
Strange beings are staring.
I think that they’re thinking
“I wonder what’s wrong with her?”
The same as everyone else there, I must be crazy.

Years and years it seems to take while people move
In and out. Is it almost my turn?
Yes it is, here she is now,
But I want to go home.
She doesn’t give me that choice.

I sit there in a daze, a twisted mesh. What is it I just muttered?
What is it you wanted to ask me?
No, no strange dreams. Only a sensation
Of being imprisoned. Imprisoned where? she asks.
How about in hell?

Eventually I can’t hear her anymore. I stop focusing,
I just want out. I don’t tell her
how I need to escape this dark pit.
I have told her enough.
I sit and wait.

It has finally passed by. I attempt to retrieve
My left behind mysteries.
Affairs that I chose not to unclothe
In the dreary, bright kind of atmosphere
Where I try to explain, but the thoughts
are all jumbled together.
All seeming hopeless.

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