you are my therapy

Stop writing long enough and all you need to do is write one word. 

One word turns into another and another, and next thing you know—

You have sheets and sheets of words formed into a flaming heap

Resembling the state of your brain or mind or whatever it is you were losing. 

The words mean things that are not very happy

Because you are not. 

And those words stare back at you like Truth often does

Telling you things you did not want to acknowledge. 

Unhappy is the real cut-to-the-chase truth if you want to know the truth. 

Living too long on the last line of pages filled with nothing 

But the same story written over and over with different details 

To keep things somewhat interesting.

Holding out hope that one more string of words

Might be the ones that fix me. 

Sofa time and getting charged by the hour, 

With so little to show for all the work, 

Write another word and then another 

Like learning how to walk again—or breathe again—  

My pen, my therapy.