The last time I saw my first therapist
she was standing at the door waving in her red dress
She was a middle-aged lady, a little plump, no hint of gray
Her mood was always moderate; she seemed to be on top of it
But I was very young
and the surety of my “knowledge”
kept me from hearing
what I needed to hear
She was a wailing wall
where I would not cry
when weeping was all
I was doing inside
Twenty years later, I find a hint of softening
I’ve walked the deepest craters but the difficulty’s lessening
I’ve seen a host of counselors, some gifted, some just comforting
Their words, and my suffering, itself,
like sandpaper on the surface of my heart’s stone
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
WOW! You took the words right out of my mouth. I'm sure anyone who's been to a therapist can relate.I know I certainly can. It was only once I started seeing a Hypno-therapist that 'my knowledge' backed-down and I could listen.