The Psychologist’s couch

The Psychologist's couch poem by steven james humphreys

I asked my shrink many decades ago

his diagnosis of me.

‘Neurotic’, he replied.

I asked him what that was

and he briefly described it.

it didn’t seem too bad to me.

I was OK with it.

So, later on I married a suicidal psychopath.

she had seen

the devil on


and do other cool things

like stand at the door of

the bedroom and stare at

me in the dark.

I had naively believed somehow I could help her.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

in return, as my reward

she pretty much destroyed me

running off with the neighbor

leaving me for dead, penniless

and severely depressed

lasting decades.

She took everything

including my house

and virtually my very soul.

But, the guy next door who lusted

after this third wife of mine got his just deserts

in the end.




killed us both

had he not swept her off her feet.

thank God.

this guy was my salvation.

I didn’t see it at the time,

but he had surely saved my life.

I owe him one, but he was twenty years

her senior and passed away two years after

retiring nearly a decade ago.

I bathe in my sweet

neurosis writing poems when

inspiration strikes.




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