My Therapist 17

My therapist keeps telling me
I can’t punch a motherfucker
or argue with my boss
or fist fight with my mom
or teach those young whippersnappers
a thing or two
when they litter in the park.

Over and over again,
session after session,
I keep asking him “what is the point?
Hate is in the air.
War’s a’comin’.
Communication’s broke down,
same as it ever was.

It’s all falling apart,”
I tell him,
“What are you gonna do
but watch the planet burn?
At the very least, we can enjoy the view.”

He sighs,
looks me in the eye,
and replies, “I
told you before:
You can’t do that.”

He talks to me about responsibility,
propriety and restraint,
and the superego combatting the id
and telling me how all my impulses are wrong
and I keep waiting
just for once
for my therapist
to finally say something positive.

About Jonathan Berger

I used to write quite a bit more.
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