This poem effectively communicates complicated emotions concerning therapy, personal pain, and the contradictory nature of healing. It displays a fundamental scepticism of therapy, comparing it to a defective, possibly hypocritical, system in which broken individuals attempt to heal one another. This scepticism revolves around the metaphor of the blind leading the blind.

However, the poem is not a direct denial of healing; rather, it acknowledges the wisdom of nature, which provides healing teachings all around us. The sun, trees, water, and animals all act as natural therapists, offering gentle, subtle advice on self love, patience, and being present.

The poem criticises a systematic therapeutic culture that occasionally causes greater harm than benefit, arguing that life itself is therapy and that everyone is both broken and a healer. In the end, it urges sincere empathy and connection while cautioning against those who misuse their status under the guise of being healers.



I Hate Therapy

Not ’cause I have ADHD,
Just that the idea feels so creepy.
Can a broken pot pour into another broken pot,
To save its water from leaking?
Well, now you get the feeling, right?

And if we’re all broken people seeking repair,
Wouldn’t seeking help from another broken person
Be a road leading to despair?

They say the blind man can’t lead the blind,
But isn’t that synonymous with therapy?
No disrespect to therapists,
But then…
Having eyes doesn’t mean a person can see.
Dumb people have mouths,
Yet still, they can’t speak.

Therapists act like saviours,
Little Christs, all drenched in sin.

The need for therapy is one I’m yet to see.
Conversations like that are prohibited in my community.
Since pain is a black man’s sign of life,
Therapy feels banal, boring, and a waste of time.

But in the shadows of my mind,
A lone crow laments.
Therapy’s embrace—
A cage unseen resents.
Yet within cracks in feathers, healing lies,
My wounded soul’s ascent, where hope defies.

I’m glad I know better now—
Not because I support therapy.
Nah…
Just that I realized my
Support doesn’t even matter.

Because living is therapy in itself,
And nature is, by essence, the therapist.

Think about it,
The sun steadily teaches what love is,
In its purest form.
It gives light to the worthy and unworthy,
The wise and the foolish.
It shares its light with the night sky,
Dressing up as the moon.

The fast-pacing sky teaches emotional intelligence,
And how to find purpose in grief.
Its tears on gloomy days
Serve as rain for the thirsty and the trees—
Showing how purpose can grow from pain.

Flowing waters teach us to be formless,
To be vulnerable without judgment,
To adapt to all of life’s experiences.
Still, waters teach the consequences
Of rigidity and stagnation—
The pain of conventionality.

Turgid green trees teach patience,
And the joys of non-attachment.
How willing they are to let the wind,
In late September,
Strip away all that gave them bloom and gloom—
Trusting the universe until spring looms.

Animals teach the peace of being present,
Whispering nature’s secrets of love and happiness.
A dog’s wagging tail
Guides us to embrace the present,
To dance in life’s rhythms.

And in humans, we find multifaceted mirrors—
Each reflecting fragments of our souls,
Illuminating virtues and flaws,
Guiding us toward self-discovery,
Where empathy and understanding intertwine.

Truth is, we are all insane,
And the world is our madhouse.
I am your therapist,
And you are mine too.

We all need someone to talk to—
Our souls need shoulders to lean on.
But since life has become synonymous with law,
The ones who should listen
Are the ones shouting, labelling, and condemning?

So when I say I hate therapy,
It’s not that I hate hate therapy—
I only hate it when those meant to heal
End up being the ones who bring the hammer,
Breaking your soul with trauma.

Written by Victor Kwesi

counselling psychologist

BLOGGER @POEMSTELLIUM

INSTAGRAM @VICTORKWESIWRITES @theapostleoflight