Reverse psychology.
You are a word weaver, use this power to bind people to what they say.
Tighten the ropes every so often so that they know there is no escape.

2. Knead and mould your patients like playdoh, mixing the colours together to create a condensed grey mass of matter.

3. Make your patients believe that they are crazy.
The more issues they have, the more you get paid.

4. Shove biased thoughts and opinions into their ears as if PUTTING IN EAR PLUGS MAKES THEM HEAR BETTER.

5. Smile and nod when they pour themselves out to you like you actually give a ****.

6. Scold them for not telling you their deepest thoughts.
Then, make them your personal mine and take as much gold as you desire.

7. Prescribe pills. All of them.
Your patients will become more beautiful with necklaces made of these colourful beads.

8. Most importantly, make sure none of your patients know each other.
The world need not know that the milk man has schizophrenia and the librarian is bipolar, because everything looks more beautiful when it's glazed and then fired in a kiln.

I anxiously await the day where m(i)ne (become)s yours and (you)rs (become)s mine.

When I was little,
I always wondered if people wore nightcaps to sleep to capture their dreams.

In the event I drink liquids fit for automobiles and devour
the taught warm light of a match, I hope you know that
I won't say sorry for all the hardships I put you through.

I won't say sorry for the way I stormed through doors
and plowed through hearts. I won't say sorry for the way
I told you yes when I really meant no. I won't say sorry

for the time I cried over spilled milk and shrieked over
stained sheets. I won't say sorry for leaving you without
even so much as a formal goodbye, other than this one

which was scrawled on the back of an unused napkin in
the middle of a crowded Starbucks down in the city, this
being the first time I've been in either place. I won't say

sorry. Not to you, not to anyone. As for now, I bid thee
fairwell, from one poetry lover to another. I won't say sorry.
For I've already managed to blurt it out seven times.

The world around me slows to a crawl,
No one around me knows me at all.
I look over the crowd of familiar faces,
From various times and different places.
They laugh and they play, one and another,
All with secret pains, I’m just like the others.