What are you keeping bottled inside? When you first open a can of soda, After it’s shaken too much, The pressure builds, When the pressure is released, Sometimes the foam runs over, Spilling on everyone in close proximity. Confession can be like a stream A little At a time, Until There’s a Steadiness That brings rest.
The rat raced me to the end of the street. Young people filled every restaurant crevice. Carefree laughs filled the September evening Where am I? I lived in DC at 18, left, and came back at 27. Now, I don’t look like these people. There’s a pudge in my belly There’s bags under my eyes My thighs grew. My patience shrunk. Thoughts of my 9-5 plague my Sunday night mind. The DC I knew at 18 was a jungle Filled with liquor stores, locals, and loud go-go. But now, DC looks like urgency and networking events. I left my youth at my office desk. As adulting strikes, all I can think of is the near future. When will we buy our home? When will my pudge turn into the nest of our babies? Work, gym, cook, scroll, text, talk, read, sleep. adulthood is the only hood I don’t recognize in DC.
Can a therapist be helped? Are they so professional That their self awareness has grown too tall Are all therapists “good people?” Are they all helpful? Does being in a helping profession penalize them from ever being deemed as a selfish? Are therapists exempt from being selfish? Does the therapist ever get tired of listening? Long venting sessions and daily affirmations. Are they tired of encouraging? Who encourages the therapists? Are they always happy and optimistic? Do they always lend hope and never borrow? Is their world painted like a rainbow Always sunny and no chance of pain? Can a therapist help themselves? Must their cup never be empty? That can’t be true.. Because why then would they continue?
