"Get under the couch," he whispered,
words soft as unraveling thread.
I laughed because what else to do?
The room, static with his steady gaze,
held its breath while I forgot mine.
Under the couch, I thought,
where dust collects like unsent letters,
where lost earrings grieve in silence,
where things go to disappear.
But he tilted his head,
as if asking me to stay inside
this strange instruction. His eyes said:
the couch isn’t furniture today.
The couch is the feeling
of curling into care, into shadows,
a low, quiet corner of yourself.
My chest loosened suddenly, unexpectedly,
like untangling a necklace too knotted to wear.
I didn’t move—and yet, somehow,
I was already there beneath
what I’d been trying not to feel.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: July 2nd, 2026 09:48
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 35
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Syd, Paul Bell
Offline)
Comments5
You keep doing it Gray another wonderful metaphoric poem that psychologically makes sense. Well done my friend
Thank You Soren
Most welcome Gray
much enjoyed
I really enjoyed this write. There's some great descriptions in there. Well written.
- Syd
Thank You Syd
Have you ever left the Psychiatrist's office thinking to yourself, that guy's nuts.
Then you hand the money over, and realise you're the nut.
The psychiatrists job is to heal but often it seems as if they are playing games or testing the patient 🤔
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