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A Question for Dr. P.

by Kristine Briese

I ask you again:
What is wrong with me?
Your response is overpowered
by the voices in my head.
They take your words--
dissociated, paranoia,
alternate persona--
and chant them gleefully
into my trembling mind,
where they circle like
nonsensical vultures.
I spend the rest of the day
battling them, trying to
force them into coherence,
trying to stab them into sense.
But they laugh at my
plastic knife and circle on.
They don't leave me alone
until I am bundled into bed
with my little green goodnight.
In the morning, you pull
back my curtain and sit
at the foot of my bed.
I ask you again:
What is wrong with me?


12/26/2002

Author's Note: Repost, after my traumatic mis-click.

Posted on 12/26/2002
Copyright © 2021 Kristine Briese

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 12/26/02 at 04:12 PM

A troubling and vivid account of consequences of the psychiatrist's couch. Been there and done that (psychologist's in my case)!

Posted by Don Coffman on 08/25/03 at 06:20 AM

Another fascinating look at the situation, it's bold of you to share and you do so with amazing eloquence.

Posted by Anne Howe on 03/01/05 at 12:48 PM

some people stick pins in dolls. you write poetry. i'm glad you do the latter as i'm struck by the fluency and fluidity with which you write about this 'stuff' *smile*

Posted by Laura Doom on 06/01/07 at 07:05 PM

Ha! Yes - those terms are for whose benefit?
"They don't leave me alone
until I am bundled into bed
with my little green goodnight."
Probably mistaken here, but I take this as regression.

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