The Wonderfully Dysfunctional Death of Psychoanalysis

I sought help caught between

every "ism" cruel and mean,

expert's smirk owned I could be

amongst the well, (grammatically?)  

I have had degree's most deep

diagnoses you can keep,

they don't cover half my ass-

"Are you hostile?"

"No, I'm crass."  

My neuroses take up space,

I could see beneath her face,

tidy office, framed Monet,

water fall, so what I say

won't be heard by those who wait

for their turn to hesitate,

fear withholding what they feel

til the urge comes to reveal-  

but her scribbling tick goes tock,

four eyes fastened on the clock.

How much does truth cost to speak?

Listening's extra, come next week.  

Smug and satisfied, her smile,

as you walk a fucking mile,

more alone than at the start,

thinking you're the rotten part.  

But have hope! Growth and change;

true recovery's within range;

save your money, buy a gun,

kill them doctors one by one.  

Inhibition shrinks the quest,

execute what they know best,

do not analyze their brains,

send a bullet to explain

how projected boundary's sloth

let repression's leash fall off.

Tuck a bill betwixt their toes,

write: your sanity sure blows.