On Breaking Up With Your Therapist

She threw up her arms in conclusive frustration 
Maybe it was surrender to her most difficult patient 

For our rocky relationship was slipping away 
Fine grains of sand through both our fingers 

She let go of my hand that she'd held for ages 
She scribbled final notes on those mysterious pages 
We waited for the other to make a move for the door 
When we'd procrastinated sufficiently my eyes rose from the floor 
We locked a final gaze that meant only good-bye 
"Good luck" she bid me as I began to cry  

A Journal To Me

A journal to me 
p*ss a canvas of our 
expression upon which 
we flick our thoughts 
with a snap of the wrist 
to shape a splattered 
portrait with the morbid 
twist of sullen verse 
  
sheet after sheet 
I peer into the cogs 
of another mind 
I’ll respond in kind
by finishing their 
peripheral thoughts 
  
Because a thought 
incomplete is a 
bittersweet invitation 
for two unmet souls 
to come face to face