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When Does a Therapist Call the Police

Catharsis 101

By Dr. Betsy WeinstockPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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I have had this dream since early childhood,

at least since before puberty and the onslaught of maturity or manhood.

I was in a hayloft of a dilapidated, run-down barn

at the back edge of what was once a working farm

now abandoned due to its proximity to Eva Braun's

summer retreat where the Fuhrer (as rumor had it,

rumor being the only news you could believe)

was now in a top secret meeting to map out

the strategy of what would be the new world order

after final victory. I was not naked but

nearly so having torn and shredded my clothes

crawling across the stubble of the meadow

in the predawn darkness of a stormy, thunderous

night. Even my underwear was wet but my gun,

a new rifle with a telescopic sight, hidden in

the barn by an anonymous member of the Resistance

Underground was dry and well-oiled having never been fired.

As I focused the cross hairs on his mustachioed head

I knew I couldn't allow the barrel to protrude

through the window, for all the sentries on guard duty

were watching. While the whole world urged me on

the thought occurred to me that this would be

the most important shot fired in the history of humanity,

but the actual pulling of the trigger, I was hesitant...

slam poetry
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