A Picnic For Freud Poem by Andy Brookes

Here is no self awareness, just a bundle of feeling,
felled trees with rotting stumps.
thoughts not unanimous. drifting dissonant anthems
a ticker tape of unreadable holes.
hard bythe credos, priests ingrained our sins.

that filter on the stream of conciseness
ragged red rawness as blindly we stagger on.

wondering about self love, suchtraitorous thoughts,
swirl with self abnegation, clashes against opprobrium.

refrains run deep unworthy of love vanities long bonfired
sad entities slide sweeping against desert storms
which subside leaving the soul scoured but the mind?
Freud would have field day.