Therapy with Freud During Austrian Hours

[CRNDLSM]

Given the chance I would have with Freud,
Perhaps he would be so kind as not to laugh. 
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
like it was a newspaper, the man is brave.
Since I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
And since I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out there like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is too preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk to me with a smile and with deep breaths.
(At least he notices me) 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 human being.
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 that he was
was something I can look up to.
After all, he was someone special, someone bright.
The man told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust. I'd delete this sentence, the next 4 words some it up.
Can I trust him?
I feel like I can’t.

I think you're really capturing the essence of yonathan asafew, the lopsided sentences that trudge on and excessive periods.  Significantly better than anything I've read on yonathan asafew, but the rewards still were not worth the read, maybe that's the Freud speaking, but if the poem was supposed to generate the dreadful trudging of sitting in front of a legendary psychiatrist I'm not happy about having experienced it.  When I go to the dentist I want to get in and get out, and this feels like it's making me sit for hours with mechanical instruments in my mouth.  Good job if that was your intent, I'm impressed.