Freudian Trip

This was my fault. I admit it. I was careless; should have known.
Now I lie here, foot on pillow, wondering if I've broken bones.
I've abandoned all my projects, left unstirred my cans of paint.
Must decide now: take more pills, or call for help before I faint.

I can hear Professor Freud
Say I did this to avoid
Work I didn't want to do.
I'm just lazy; that's his view.

This was my fault; I admit it. I was careless, I confess;
Scattered papers on the staircase, went away and left a mess.
But I challenge analytic minds to prove subconscious plans:
I have done with tape and oil-base; creamy beige awaits in cans.

I can hear Professor Freud
State that this was just a ploy
For attention; a poor claim:
"Spoil me, friend, because I'm lame."

This was my fault; I admit it. I was careless, moved too fast,
Laying out my trays and brushes, (Hope I won't be in a cast.)
But my roller can be fitted to a handle reaching high.
I can paint the walls on crutches; I can do it if I try.

Yes, I know Good Doctor Freud
Claimed we really do enjoy
Pain and suffering: How absurd!
Psychoanalytic turd!