posing with my notebook
giving me a place to hide
in bitter ink i try and think
myself back to some pride
crawling in my guitar
cut my fingers on the strings
and sing of yaks and sealing wax
of cabbages and kings
anhedonic postures
leave your heart and body stiff
there's prison bars from here to Mars
for those who wonder if...
incapable of pleasure?
or trying to cause pain
'cos either way it hurts
so
come
let's stop this
stupid
game
Poems For My Analyst by Wayne Myers