I think I need therapy,
a space to speak freely,
where I can see me.
Stop the ne’er-do-well naysayers,
anxiety in every layer,
my mouth’s MP3 player,
seems to have bored her.
The clock, it makes me sick,
beep, tick, beep, tick.
Spending an hour,
trying to be less dour.
The end of the timer,
a yearning for power,
control of what makes me sour.
See you next week,
hopefully less meek,
a break,
to be weak.
Screens off,
tears burning, rough.
Eyes pushed tight,
dark fog still lacking bright white.