Poem: A Therapist's Morning

The young man grows up
With a father, chronically disparaging, disappointed
In his son.
The father, a ne’er do well.
‘Who is he to criticize me?’
The boy wonders.
The boy learns to hide himself:
“We don’t have to tell your father’
‘No need to stir things up’
Says his mother.
At school he invents a life,
Invents pot, invents sex
To be cool, to be accepted.
No one sees him.
Like Eleanor Rigby
He puts on face
He keeps in a jar by the door.
No one sees him. Who is he?

Do we seek recognition here?
Will I be seen?
Will someone like me?

A young woman grows up
One of far too many siblings.
‘Suck it up!’ says her father.
‘Pray’ says her mother.
Over the years their lack
Of inclination
To see her
Begins to wear her away.
Their insistence on boxing
Her into their religion or
You are no longer our daughter
Pulverizes her
Dust now.
Only exhaustion remains
The stone of resentment
Long placed atop her
Disappointed longings.

Do we seek recognition here?
Will I be seen?
Will someone like me?