Is there a humour therapist in the house?
Sitting here, chortling, do not grouse,
If you abuse crumpets, men,
You undermine your own best interests, do you ken?
Then you don't get crumpet, men,
Or is men a rude word,
You're reaping what you earn,
You want a cup of tea from me?
Chortle, the magic word is please!
You would not believe this ham,
Feeding the world this spam,
You want fresh vegetables?
Frozen food, not dementiable,
You can get another better than me,
So what's wrong with you, prithee?
Yes, the catering staff is on a sitdown strike,
You'd best find yourself a loving wife,
Chortle, shut up snivelling, you grouse,
Is there a humour therapist in the house?

I still remember
the look in your eyes
when I was standing
in front of the building
crying and shaking
you came down the stairs
asking what happened
you opened the door
not letting me out of your view
together we climbed the stairs
and when we were inside
i saw that you cried
in your room
when you were alone
and suddenly i knew
nobody's perfect
*- therapists can have therapists too

I tried to write a happy poem.
I tried to throw myself into a pit of nostalgia to try and remember what happiness feels like.

All my poems are so sad, I don't know why I'm so sad.
My therapist tells me I have self esteem issues that effect everything else in my life.
My insecurities have ways been there, I had just never been able to put a name to the face until I brought a razor to my skin for the first time and the pain didn't feel wrong.
I didn't know what I was doing was wrong, I had no idea that it was wrong to be a  12 years old with arms covered in scars I call my battle wounds,
because no one wants to talk about the elephant in the room when it sounds like I've been to war and I'm only 17.
They won't poke and **** me with questions when it sounds like I was captured by the enemy and skinned for my beliefs.
I won't be questioned why I am not happy.
Why at 12 years old I was unhappy and why I am 17 years old now and I am still not happy.

I tried to write a happy poem.
I tried to write a happy poem by thinking 6 years back to before I knew I put the name to the face, before my insecurities were put on show for the world to see,
before I knew it was wrong to hate myself for what I wasn't and for who I wanted to be.
Until it finally hit me.
I've never been happy.
My hair was never as long as the ******* my left,
my body was never as skinny as the ******* my right.
My smile was never the shiniest nor were my eyes the brightest.
I tried to write a happy poem, but I can't write about a foreign entity, I can't write about something I have never had.
The concept of happiness is so alien that no wonder that when people are overcome with the feeing they feel out of this world.

Happiness is a luxury that I have never been given the privilege of.
Happiness is a luxury that I have never I will never been given the privilege of of.

I tried to write a happy poem,
I feel more empty inside than I've ever felt before.

i don't know when i started putting everybody else before myself
it was probably back when she called me obnoxious, or when he started ******* behind my back
or when you told me i was too absorbed in my problems, that i needed to "get my **** sorted"

i thought i was, in all honesty

i didn't realise it was such a crime to be open about therapy,
that talking about my problems was selfish of me,
that's what they tell you to do in therapy:
talk, think, open up, discuss
was it wrong for me to practice honesty about what's haunting me in your company?
maybe you just didn't want to know about that side of me
and maybe that said more about you than it did about me
but by the time i'd come to realise that much
it was already too late, and the doors had been shut

i have this one friend - she worries about me
she knows how many stories i listen to, how many walls i'm breaking through
she tells me that my health is important
i know this
but it's like it doesn't matter
not when it's me
i tell everyone that they need to look after themselves but i don't really care about my own well-being
maybe those rules just don't apply to me
maybe i'm a hypocrite, or perhaps self-loathing is a good excuse

i just want to help those who come to me
my self-employment doesn't make me any money
perhaps i'm the one paying the price
but it's okay because i know i've saved lives
that's not to say it doesn't wear down on me
my career is short-lived compared to those who practice this professionally
but i can no longer remember what it was like before i started offering arms and shoulders and pieces of my heart
without taking the time to replace the parts

i get thank you's every once in a while
i tell them, "honestly, it's never a problem"
"never" is a lie
but i wouldn't admit that, no, really, it's fine
i don't mind offering my support and advice
my insomnia means sleep is a rare gift and it comes at indecent times
but if you call me at four AM, even if i was asleep i'll stay on the line
sleep might be a gift but i'd rather preserve the gift of life

sometimes i ask myself how many times i'll have to talk down a loved one from suicide
my heart, with abandon, beats a hopeful rhythm of "never", and my mind whispers "that's a lie"
i recall to mind being thirteen, maybe fourteen years old,
curled into the bed post, night light shining
tears blinding, stinging my eyes
an arm-full of red and a yearning inside
that murmured "one more time and everything will be fine"

i swallow down the acid, even though it burns,
and force my leaden tongue to form assurances and love letters that speak of better days
so many of them have no idea how close i came
they don't need to know about that trigger
just another loaded gun
i'd rather them point it at me than have them aiming for themselves

i just want to help, make them know they're not alone
let my voice ring in their ears, "you will never be on your own"
have my friendship swimming in their veins so they no longer need to bleed
all those demons flooding their arteries will make no match for me
and when it all gets too much, i'll scream into some empty void
let them pour their sadness into me while i'm spewing out my own
i'm strong enough to bleed and carry on being what they need - they can spill their tears all over me, i promise it won't finish me

i'll ignore the salt in my wounds that shakes me to the bone
let them bury themselves inside these broken ribs and find a place to call home.

There is an emotional graveyard in my back yard
It's for all the feelings that die, and I discard

Innocence was the first to fall
But isn't it always that one for us all

Happiness fallowed soon after that
Because my life quickly turned to crap

Trust was the next to bite the dust
For self preservation it was a must

Ignorance was the very next one
I swiftly learned life's lessons
Under the gun

Love has entered and been dug up from the ground
But each time I bury it a little father down

Sympathy can also out there be found
It's right over there it's the biggest mound

Desire and all the stuff I crave
Is right here in this shallow grave

Lust that I mistook for love one to many times
Deep is it's hole it was such a vicious crime

Joy also has it's place among the markers
It couldn't be saved by the therapist or doctors

Anger was the last that went underground
I just couldn't take any more of it's horrific sound

You'll notice pain, agony, and strife
Very much still have lots of life
So also is fear and my darkness
I have placed their markers after all I'm heartless

And that last little plot way over there
Under the Weeping Willow dug with such care
It's stone only has dates and dashes
That's for my shell when it finally crashes
For it will be hollow void of all emotion
To lie in that grave will be such a promotion

Someone once told me to stay alive from them
And it was never my family, it was never my friends
It was someone who was hired to keep me alive
She did a pretty good job
Even if she doesn’t care about me her acting convinced me enough
Because I can’t seem to succeed in dying

I t h i n k a b o u t y o u
m o r e t h a n m y t h e r a p i s t s a i d I s h o u l d .