Now that Dr. Morell says my meds are stabilizing, he's decided to move me on to a new form of therapy that involves and develops my creative expression. Since I haven't gouged anyone's eyes out with my pencil, he feels it's safe to take next steps, and wants me to try my hand at Haiku. Apparently, Haiku is a form of poetry invented by
Haiku isn't like the poems I studied in college, which mainly involved drinking lots of beer. For one thing, these don't have to rhyme, which is great, because
I call this first one, "The You-Know-What:"
I really won it.
They all stabbed me in the back.
Podesta must die.
Once you get the hang of it, this Haiku stuff gets easier. This is another one, which Dr. Morell really liked and thought brought out the best in me:
Seth Rich is a rat.
Two bullets in the creep's skull.
Brains on the sidewalk.
My third Haiku is my favorite, probably because it's so romantic:
Pudding has no soul.
I lick, but taste disappoints.
It is not Huma.
This stuff is so easy! Maybe this is my true calling. I'm having Bessie buy me a kimono online, but Dr. Morell says it's a bit too soon for me to try chopsticks. My manual dexterity still isn't what it should be and they could get stuck in my throat.