Therapy

needing to alter anxious thinking

i don’t bring my cagey singing to an altar

a therapist is not a priest at office hours for a session

but barfing up my baggage feels a fuckload like confession

what a profession 

i confess i’m not averse to feeling envy

but this human across the room must have a finite well of sympathy

while i mine it and whine that i’ve lost a sense of hope

she nods along then summarizes and asks me how I cope

i draw i paint i write shit no one reads like poetry

she asks if i’m concerned about my legacy

i say honestly that doesn’t mean that much to me

and wonder if that’s a lie

i have no control over the stories people tell after i die

mostly i don’t want to live a life that’s mirthless

and it would help if i didn’t feel so worthless

possessed by fear and grief my self-doubt’s a fucking beast

on second thought and second second thoughts 

maybe i do need a priest