My therapist  asked to see some of my writing that I keep to myself. At home, hidden between books and knick knacks.  I chose a piece and tried not  look at his face when he read it

Not everything I write is sad, really.  I see his eyebrows raise and lower, he  adjusts his reading glasses. He laughs and I cringe.

It is very intetesting to hear his interpretation of a poem I wrote. He likened it to me searching for my mania. Which I do but it wasn’t what I thought of  when I wrote it. 

Anyway,  now that it is Fall, my focus is no longer on Spring time rhymes. 


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