Therapy

I know this is supposed to be a sports-themed blog (hence the name), but, in honor of National Poetry Month (it is observed every April in the USA and Canada), I thought I’d share a little something I wrote (in April, ironically enough) many moons ago that has absolutely nothing at all to do with athletics. In fact, it’s pure nonsense. Like me.

 

So, without further ado, here is Therapy

 

( … The doctor is in … )

Fidgety …

Restless on purpose

Inquiring how to vent this ceaseless dog-barking ache

Smothering for justifications it won’t explain

A conversation within my self

(“Suicidal tendencies?”)

A way out of the interminable tunnels of my creaking mind?

(Rocking in a wood-hardened chair)

“I’m not crazy.”

“Not crazy.”

“Crazy.”

“I am, am I?”

(Divided by multiples of me)

Every day, I endure this soundless therapy

Agrees my theory is intact

(Me is talking to me)

(Is answering me)

SHHH.

(Can’t unscramble the exchange between me)

Did you hear what I said to me?

Me neither.

(Both halves of me murmured)

UNITED.

“Am I not entitled to some privacy with my selves?”

This temporary calm in my workaholic mind shoves my extended listing of worries into another crevice of being.

(The two me’s.)

You and you.

They.

Me.

The stages of mental therapy.

Phase One — ME;

Phase Two — WE.

WE BLEED UNCOVERED PLATEAUS.

(Age-dusted-over-kind-of-covered-discoveries)

Secret doors in OUR mind

(Merging in the median)

Where the “WE” in “ME” changes into “I.”

(Passed another therapy session)

I will see my selves later

( … The doctor is out … )

 

Originally written April 21, 1996.

 

 

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