I Want My Therapist to Like Me pt. 1 (freestyle writing)

I want my therapist to like me…

so i better not tell her where i come from. how i got here. why im here – in this chair – in her office.

after all, she’s not in mine…

I want my therapist to think im perfect,

maybe, then, I will be worthy of connection.

until then… fake it till you make it… eh?

I hope that no one sees my flaws… i hope nobody prays for me.


A metaphor for perfect… must be calibrating consciousness so that nobody sees me, as close to invisble as i can come is what i must be, if im to make it out the bottom and rise to the top from the slums of drudgery, slavery and mastery and pastor eatin’ Mickey D’s and preaching how a person must treat one of the casualties of hunger and greed, the fuel for the property tax increase the mule for the walker who passes these atrocities without sighting nothin’, without seeing nothin’, without feelin’ nothin’. Who are these folks that breath jokes and some toke and some sober and some who’s lives are already over and some who find time in a corona and some who like fizzy soda and some who don’t drink anything the preacher feeds – some who don’t look innocence in the face without a sneeze, a reboot, a tease, a future a plea for honest consciousness to rise above the drudgery – what’s this comin up under me? I’m shocked to blossoms and flowers and green leaves… what the fuck is Spring after a winter like a thousand years of pain, famine and disease… tell me how to understand the recent train of happenings – magic making, tappin’ in – tell me what the fuck is HAPPENIN’! That’s a command not a stutterin’, rumbling earth quake from the ponderin’, mind to go out wonderin’, mine to go out wanderin’ i might explore it then, new terrain and it all smells like fresh friends, new beginnings with no ends.