The girl was only six years old
When a doctor said with glee
‘Your mother must be very proud!
To have a child so bright and sound.
Who never is afraid to ask
About the way the body works.
And why this needle and not that
And what these drops do
And what’s that?’
I’ve never heard such questions
Or such interest! Why you even asked
For details when we opened up your chest!’
(Though privately he did admit, that he found it rather tiring
To have to meet and treat a kid so unusually demanding.)
So the girl grew up believing in questioning and reasoning,
She never saw that analysing
Was actually quite paralysing.
Especially for those around her, too polite
To point it out, that what she had was really
No social skills.
She deconstructed everything
Challenged her companions and dissected every word.
Asked interminable questions
On motives, thoughts and feelings; making the mistake
Of thinking this was conversation.
But when her friends
And lovers, fell exhausted by the wayside,
She started in on what was left-
Her very lonely insides.
She picked and poked
Unpacked each joke, each dream and
Applied reductive theory to unconscious thoughts
Indulged in dreary meditations
On sexual relations.
She pulled out hidden sentences of her inner soul,
Questioned every syllable of
Her motive, will and self.
Threw out all the ugly bits
That could not be understood.
Cleaned the blood and mystery
From the Ego and the Id.
Shook out her hidden psyche
All neat and clean cut lines
Hung it metaphorically on figurative clothes lines.
Stepped back with satisfaction
But too late realised
That anything worth having
Cannot be analysed.