My therapist is the most expensive mirror I've ever purchased in my life
I mean, she, she's copy written my reflection
I mean, I mean, she's just another person that owns pieces of me that I don't
my therapist has coffee breath
that unravels my film strip
my therapist says I'm negative but I told my therapist that my mind is a dark room
and I have a tough time explaining the pictures
my therapist says that I have self-destructive tendencies
that I take things the wrong way
what she really means is: the last time she performed an autopsy on my coping mechanisms
she found an asylum of malignant explosions ready to destroy everybody in a trust mile radius
I'm just glad my copay covers the soot in her carpet
so, I-I told my therapist that I'm very indecisive
and I have a tough time making a decision
my mouth is a velvet rope for the things I can't take back
this velvet rope throat moonlights as a concierge for my regrets
so I go to therapy
because I treat silence like a first language
but my therapist said I speak puncture wound Ebonics fluidly
what she really means is I talk in small circles and by small circles she means big circles
and by big circles she means targets and by targets she means I wear my victim like a brand-new pair of shoes
but I never told my therapist that I have to borrow my mother's tongue to say certain words
I have to sift her tongue out of a pool of blood and liquor to say things like
depression, cherish, adoration, blood, you know, synonyms
I told my therapist that my dad had this thing
where he'd stuff all of our bowls in a bottle and shrink the spirit out of his family
why are you asking me about my family?
they're ghosts now, they're going down, they're surfing on my flight response to love
and I'm at the shoreline waving them hello
bipolar depression is the birthmark I used to distinguish my bloodline with
I've never told my therapist that I have polite suicide attempts
I don't leave cryptic facebook messages
I just cut my wrist and bleed poems
I told my therapist that. she said - she said I have self-destructive tendencies
so I finally decided what kind of combustion I am
I am a controlled demolition cleaning my wreckage with a bucket of
vodka and a mop. I told my therapist that I really have a tough time explaining my emotions
she said: but you're a poet
I said: Just because I have words doesn't mean I know how to communicate
Everyone needs someone to talk to but not everyone knows how to speak
*audience cheering*
