You defer that next meeting

at the doctor’s,

knowing that to talk to oneself,

for far too long

makes poor verbiage of one’s days;

and worse for wear is your mind.

naturally then you look at yourself

a certain way

and then to see round eyes of others’

pronounced judgements

is a slow death.


It minces your thoughts,

word by word,

little by little.

You see yourself as a jester and a fool,

testing out your own expressions

before the mirror

and then imagining the doctors’

reactions too.

They swim like floating weeds,

coming up to the surface without

clarity amongst dirty pools

and you somewhere are sure that

the three letter word is on your mind.



That’s why you seek your shadows

in convenient silences,

stretched out throughout the

longevity of teenage

and young adulthood.


But now you are about to touch

your thirties

and shame is what you need to barter

with the devil on your shoulder.

For years,

he bespoke your innocence

and ignorance,

disguising them as parameters of bliss

So enough with him.

You have marked the meeting,

spending Sunday ticking by,

like an implosive time-bomb of sorts.

And then,

you gather your twitching thoughts


Palpitating about how the perpetual

traffic in motion

means that nobody really stops,

to work or feel or see.

Certainly not to see you like this.

They just move

They just move

Or spin in the same static time zones.

Your brow receives a light downpour


and your body gets cold,

from counting the number of closed

switches in the rooms

and checking the stove in the kitchen,

for the twentieth time within a



11 O’ Clock,

Monday morning.

marked for a show of reality.

And when the doctor does raise his


and makes you more nervous by the

earnestness of the session,

being as he is human,

or just acting professional,

you doubt if coming here was worth it

And your mind keeps moving

and moving,

in a static frame,

of what it means to go there

in the first place.