A letter to my therapist, written through inebriation.

I feel a memory, and they’re never hazy,

Traumatic memories that flood in when lazing.

These memories that flow in are pure crystal translucent;

A draconian professor - Life’s non-eager student.

Now as I laze as a man of twenty three,

I perceive the whole world around me,

As cold and scientific.

My past visions are horrific,

My cold questioning, my never ending processing;

Are akin to an emotional lobotomy.

That “operation” may have well,

Been the operation physical,

From the destruction that I could not

Communicate then, but now.

From the touching of skin-to-skin,

The allegory seems akin:

Of a lobotomy surgery, carried out in a nursery;

For it was not a childlike sin.

I can no longer see level, without empathy now,

I see all the world’s people, as soulless, who sell,

Who’ve sold their souls (or may have well);

For they seek no knowledge unattainable.

I see no problem, emotionally,

I describe all issue, factually;

Except for art, in which case,

Most who see the world my way,

Can fill their arts

With better thoughts,

Filled with meta,

Every stroke and letter,

Before their tortured mind plagues and rots.

Before they become those who choose no thought.

Now, just as those artists, who capture their thoughts,

In ways seemingly beyond human;

I collect observations, societal frequency changes,

In ways beyond book consuming.

-

Observations and revelations,

That I analyze beyond reasonable nature,

Are the direct results,

I will forever preach and call,

Of life’s draconian professor, who in stature small,

Taught me lesson, a lesson most physical

Of touches beyond comprehension,

That fueled my teenaged reprehension;

That experience - Of a trauma so deep,

My childhood perceptions, after that

Were put to sleep,

Forevermore,

Life’s professor changed my perceptions at four.