poems for my analyst
a penny for my heart
it's twice a week
i sit and speak
into the void of Art
it's music for my doctor
a cacophany of feeling
all self-help books
and dirty looks
directed at the ceiling
i'm singing to my therapist
a song i never wrote
the truth i own
is made of bone
it's sticking in my throat
in verses for my counsellor
i'm crying on a wheel
my eyes will burn
and i will learn -- eventually -- to heal
Poems For My Analyst by Wayne Myers