This is a poem I wrote which basically became a Mr. Robot fanfiction, a buddy of mine told me I should put it up.

"Your Therapist is Typing a Response."

Who are you?
Why do I come here, day after day.
	Talking to you, baring this soul I have made for myself.
I see you as a flashing message on a screen
	“Your therapist is typing a response”
I don’t know who you are
They told me to come here every week
	Talk to you for an hour
Take my meds with dinner.
Why should I do that?
What keeps me from walking off into the sunset,
Leaving your office and never coming back?
I’m not sure
	He might find me again.
Talk me into one of my old schemes.
	I could do it.
And that’s why I can’t.

I do not take action because I have reached the point where the friction of silence outweighs the comfort of safety.
	I have stood before the wall at that point and I have broken through, crashing into the rubicon beyond.
And yet I am still here.
Watching the same flashing message.
	“Your therapist is typing a response.”
I have taken actions most men and women will never see possible.
	I have broken boundaries, destroyed limits for the entire world.
		I have changed the rules upon which the game of life has been built since the beginning of time.
And yet I am lower than the man making sandwiches.
	Lower than the boy who cries out in the dark.
		Lower than the pigs rooting in the mud and the dust and the ashes of our crumbling civilization.

I look and I see the same expectations, the same rules that I have always seen.
	Take your medicine, do your job, talk to your friends.
I don’t have any friends.
	I have few interests.
I am the man you remember, not because he rode a unicycle down the sidewalk, 
	Not for the bells and trumpets he played in his wake,
		But because you wake in the night and realize that I said sorry but you never heard my voice.


You will see me again.
If you traveled my streets once you must do it often, for it is not the way of the tourist,
But I will see you as a sheep, and you will see me as a stone in your path, and we will avoid each other once more.
We stand, torn.  We must speak and yet, we must remain silent.
	How much of the wool could I pull off of your eyes before I am brought back down into the depths?
How much longer can I stand to be among you?
I must not move.
	But I will make a noise