You've been there, sitting
quietly, wondering why
that time went away

I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.

As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.

I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.

Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.

Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.  

Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".

Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.  
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.

Today i made a chair,
But the legs are nowhere to be found.

The cushion is if my favorite color,
The size is just right.
Between my body and the floor,
Beneath me is the chair.

The way it holds me so caring,
Bold in shape.

The angles have a modern twist,
Beautiful and graceful.

The chair was not my own,
Beginning it was hers.

The position was just right
The placement was shared
Today i lost a friend.

Boys take friends, sometimes
Boys make roommates move out
Beyond the comfort of - our chair -

Soft chairs watch over us.
They give us a place
to mourn, laugh, ****.
Chairs gently cradle us
without guile or judgement,
as the best of friends.
The crevices and folds
formed in the material of chairs
record and keep our secrets,
our histories.
Without soft chairs
we are nothing.

You sit there
In that big chair
Leaning forward in false interest.
With Affluence.
Where do the thoughts go?
Away in a box of unsent letters?
Why are there so many letters?
Like an unknown alphabet.
An exotic language,
too hard to interpret.
So much time spent to decipher,
That by the time you do,
The letters lost their meaning,
Lost in translation.

Forever.