I am on a roll with writing silly poems. The bit about my therapist falling asleep and then calling me Audrey is true. As she was examining the inside of her eyelids I had to ask her if she was ok. I don’t think I am over it…….
Poem
My name is not Audrey
As a sea swimmer
I like to think I’m wild.
But those days are over
And now I am mild.
As I dive with glee into the sea
But my name is not Audrey.
How do you know a sea swimmer?
They will always tell you.
And wax lyrical about being cold and blue.
My name is Adele with one L and two E’s
And my name is not Audrey.
I don’t drink anymore
And it gets on people’s nerves.
They assume I am boring.
That I’ve lost my Vim and Verve.
That perhaps I can’t be happy
If my name is not Audrey.
The only pissed I get now is with my therapist
When she highlights my defects.
Which I can’t be fecked to address.
She fell asleep once and then called me Audrey.
I marvelled at her lack of tact and memory.
I am annoying.
My sense of humour
Is crass, and tawdry.
And my name is not Audrey.
I am imperfectly perfect.
Or so the affirmations proclaim.
But to be honest I can’t be fecked
Today with trying to filter my brain.
I woke up in shite form.
And the day has got steadily worse.
My dogs barked at everyone.
And my head is fit to burst.
The garbage bag then burst open.
And the seagulls circled me.
One pooped on my head.
And made me want to scream.
So I need to see my therapist
To deescalate my zenitis.
Maybe she will remember me
And recall that my name is not Audrey.
By
Adele Leahy
