Therapy For Me

 

When it comes to ugliness

or the self-decaying alcoholic,

I’m well schooled.  I’ve painted pictures

of bleak, of despair,

 

of insert your own pitiful remembrance

of what it’s like to hate, and always

with the elaborate color scheme

of black and white.

 

What’s wrong with a tree

being a f*****g tree?  I ask you as if you know

or care about me.  We both know

you don’t. 

 

I could write all day and paint pictures

of smiling faces but I won’t.  I don’t care

to be pretty or ugly

just to be.  This voice is free

therapy for me. 

 

Perhaps you think you know me

or even yourself.  Perhaps you don’t.  Perhaps you think

you’re so f*****g smart.  Well maybe you are

but who cares.  Probably just you.

 

But if I think I’m smart

where does that leave me?  Chopping down the tree?

Or perhaps using it as a metaphor

for something really big.