Nearing a year old, this guy has never made it out of the waiting room. Sitting, waiting, slowly going mad. I’m gathering a collection of poems, preparing to slam. This guy has never made it out of the waiting room, never approached the light of day. I’m looking for less than two minutes, trying to fit in exactly what I mean to say.
Waiting Room
It seems like favoring enabling to say that I don’t think a therapist should be able to change their waiting room, without warning but –
I don’t think a therapist should be able to change their waiting room without warning.
Do you know how maddening it is trying to sit there,
trying to remember your problems,
but suddenly the white lily I was expecting to be directly across from my favorite seat,
two seats away from the door but on the same way,
three seats away from the water dispenser that I’ve convinced myself is only there for show,
or anyone else in the waiting room, but never for me
even as my mouth becomes a desert, missing the lily on the way.
The very least you could do, if you’re going to change your waiting room – is take down that damn broken clock.
It keeps tic-ticking only to land in the same place over, and over, and over again.
Ticking.
It has been 12:56 for at least 18 minutes,
Ticking
but that’s only from what I can confirm and my suspicions tell me that my phone reading 2:52 means it’s been quite a bit longer.
Ticking
Perhaps in the way medications, treatments, are only ever catered to managing symptoms rather than to cure – perhaps her success rate was just too good and see needed to change things up,
Ticking
throw some distress out to her audience, ensure that she’s needed.
Or maybe it’s the cure.
You see, I don’t remember now,
what my problems were.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 