The Psychiatrist
"Tell me your ten happiest moments,
from birth through all your years."
ensconced he sat behind his desk,
stroking his Freudian beard.
"Take your time, my dear, and think,
just tell me when you're done."
I swear, for the life of me,
I couldn't think of one.
That Christmas when I was four
and all my hopes were dowsed,
I had asked for a train set,
but got a cheap doll house.
My mind shuffles through the years,
like a worn out deck of cards,
I remember all my beloved pets
that I buried in the yard.
I remembered unseen entities,
always lurking in the gloom,
and the poltergeist who threw things
sometimes clear across the room.
I remembered almost dying
when I was only five,
the scars on the outside
and the deeper ones inside.
Oh, boy, I'm on a roll now,
as the inner visions flood,
of splattered brains and bullets,
parental blood instead of love.
"Good God, this is a waste of time,
and frankly, it's quite painful,"
with steepled hands the Freudian doc
stared blankly at the table.
©Danielle White
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