A CONVERSATION WITH MY THERAPIST
“Rhyme is meaning,” my therapist said.
“Find happiness in words of joy’s bright spark.”
“Poetry’s a spell that can raise the dead.”
“Why are your poems always so dark?”
I responded:
My mind’s a buzz like the busy bees of Spring.
Yet I can’t pen words of love, sun or flowers true.
I find the sweetness of bees is in their sting.
As a colour, joy won’t blend well with my shades of blue.
My soul’s the Autumn night, crisp and candle lit.
My heart’s a season between hope’s death and resurrection.
I can’t write of joy from where I sit.
My thoughts don’t tend in that direction.
Hope’s power is that it’s yet to come.
This truth sets my spirit’s beat, rhythm and time.
So, if you wonder where my poems spring from,
Know that my life and my words just have to rhyme.
Like the water in rain,
Streakin’ my face with pain,
It won’t wash me clean or sane,
I just don’t know who to blame
For shakin’ me, takin’me, cratin’ me, breakin’ me
All the while un-makin’ me
Then just up and forsakin’ me.
Now in search of truth I stumble,
While in protest I mumble,
It’s about no justice that I grumble!
I trip up and tumble
Down from the path of success,
I lost that shit with the rest.
My head’s PTSD stressed
I’m strong, I passed that test.
I held my end of the line.
So good or bad y’all, my life and my words
Just have to rhyme.
Jw McKinleyville 4/15/25