Again he sits and spits the poison words
he uses to envenomate himself.
The couch and I stuffed sick with all we’ve heard
while clock is ticking time off on the shelf.
 
A rash of irritation in my chest
that’s creeping north, a silent, noxious fog
of disdain for this asshole to my left.
Will no one halt this monologuing hog?
 
It’s forty sessions in, I finally break.
Hey, where the fuck am I? Not on this couch.
Was this the plan, Doc? Forcing me to take
up space and scream I’m here, to hear me shout?
 
Well, cue the balloons
you fucking buffoons.