07-16-2021, 04:10 AM
Ok well I made a little revision to the poem. Hope you can enjoy that.
Therapy with Freud During a Siesta
By Yonathan Asefaw
Perhaps he would like to listen to my problems.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
as if he were a cat to a mouse, why should he read?
I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
Why were they so violent? They seemed like him.
I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk with a smile and with deep breaths
like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless physician of the mind.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man was listening to me
I needed him to hear my problems.
He told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
His words fill my ears inviting me to listen.
Therapy with Freud During a Siesta
By Yonathan Asefaw
Perhaps he would like to listen to my problems.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
as if he were a cat to a mouse, why should he read?
I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
Why were they so violent? They seemed like him.
I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk with a smile and with deep breaths
like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless physician of the mind.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man was listening to me
I needed him to hear my problems.
He told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
His words fill my ears inviting me to listen.