I am always in therapy,

the trouble is I am my own private physician

who prescribes too much medication

in the form of dropped words, social

exclusion and my own valueless fears

for which cannot be bought

for they have become too priceless.

 

The University taught me to analyse

the words of others and when I read them now

I wonder how much sub-text goes on

between the sheets, and then I pour scorn

like a never ending jug of milk

from the near sucked off teat

of the dairy herd cow,

blissful in its ignorance

that its milk is not destined for its own offspring.

 

I seek treatment during the night

and I regale tales of the day

to my electronic psychotherapist

who ravages deeper and asks more of me

each evening,

the whore never having enough,

feet tapping under the table

and the legs wrapped tightly

to the bottom

of the chair.

There is though,

no remedy

for this, who in their right mind

would want to stop the psychosis of words

that blister, burst and form again,

but tighter, full of septic scrutiny,

and the urgency of a breakdown

that never seems to

come

my way.

 

I seek no antidote,

I ask for no cure,

just the silent,

fear of an unread thought to guide

my way.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015