My therapist described my emotions as the door to a shed.

She said,
They come and go,
A never ending flow,
And the door opens to let each one in,
One out.

But something is wrong with my door,
Or,
Many things galore.

See,
Sometimes it seems like my door is stuck cracked,
And the shape that is my emotion
That is dark and black,
Has to squeeze to get in or out,
And so is stuck for a while.

Other times the door has been flung wide open,
And no shape sticks for more than a moment,
Because the light makes it go away.

Yet more moments,
The shed space expands,
And everything waiting in line floods in at once,
And my thoughts become all tied into a bunch.

Once in a while it works,
The door swings open and closed,
And that is when I feel the best,
When the brain machine is unopposed.