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.