Is Freud Felicity? Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Love is decried, set, swept aside, superfluous subjectivity
unjustified by all allied to mindless blind psychiatry.

Reflection cast, one stands aghast, for Freudians felicity
in life's deemed vast card-index classed id ego interdependency.

Has true-love cried so often, sighed in vain through human history?
Is trust well-tried hate misapplied when analyzed by PhD?

Is shell shut fast ‘gainst pulses fast, emotions' sensitivity,
that gives at last, must live outcast from self's sought soul, mind mystery.

The truths inside instincts abide, find double bind when men won't see,
none need to hide self, hope denied, from individuality.