[Verse 1 – Opening: Asking for Prozac] I knock on the door – she floats into the room, Like an angel with a degree and casual gloom. I walk in slowly, the place is well designed, A beige armchair, a cactus – the deep, aesthetic kind. She smiles at me – that empathetic dose, The kind they teach in "Empathy 101," I suppose. “How are you feeling?” – she whispers like a prayer. “Doctor, please save me… I need the pill, it’s meant to fix despair.” [Verse 2 – Following the Magazine] “Your problem,” she says, “started with your grandma. But give it a week – and you’ll be a new persona.” She sends me good vibes in her spare time, So I thought, why not? I’ll start the climb. I bought a magazine – “10 Steps to Pure Bliss,” Full of charts, quotes, and for the strict – a turmeric twist. I added it in – not sure what for, But if it’s in print – it must heal to the core. [Verse 3 – Going Spiritual] I started quoting Kabbalah – like I’m Madonna at least, Saying “Endless Light” to describe my inner feast. Bought a purple crystal – mostly for the shade, They said it blocks bad energy and heals the heartbreak parade. I kept saying “energy” like I had reserves, Though I was drained, anxious, and out of nerves. I don’t say “hello” – now it’s “presence” instead, And each breath I take is logged in a self-growth thread. [Verse 4 – New Age Lifestyle] I sip Peruvian coffee at the exact right time, Half espresso, half cow dung – earthy and sublime. I play only vinyl – old-school and pure, Though I can’t tell jazz from a screeching detour. I write in my journal: “I attract abundance,” But all I attract is existential redundance. Breathe in on five, exhale on seven, Still anxious – like my clock runs backward, not heaven. [Verse 5 – Pseudo-Intellectual] I joined a book club – they called it divine, So I said “so layered!” though I hated each line. It was about a Japanese man in a Norwegian tree – I nodded ironically, as if it spoke to me. Sipped orange wine with a hint of peach, Talked about existence and freedom of speech. And I thought – where’s the real stuff poured? Does anyone read here? Or are we just bored? [Verse 6 – Back to the Psychiatrist] So I came back to you, Doc, with my head held low, Said: “I did it all – even mindful breathing and dreams in a flow.” I read, I breathed, I bought, I swore – with full intention, So why do I still feel like gum stuck in a tension? Why do I post about “inner peace” in a story, Then chain-smoke outside like a tragic allegory? You smiled like Buddha with a red lipstick twist, Looked at me with the same certified therapist gist. And said with no fluff, no filter, no spin: “Maybe… just maybe… you need to listen… from within.”