Rhythms That Are Wrong gathers nearly three decades of verse by psychotherapist Paul Wadey, and its poems are not confessions. They are artefacts, language produced in the narrow space where feeling and formulation refused to meet. The tension driving the collection is professional before it is personal. Wadey writes from inside a war between two irreconcilable demands: the visceral, often brutalising immediacy of clinical Work, and the cold, codifying rigour of academic Study. Trapped between raw exposure and mechanistic abstraction, between an imperfect barbarity and a frozen lexicon, the mind arrived at its own prophylactic solution. It learned, quietly, to dissociate. The book turns on that fracture. Side 1, the poetry of duress (1997-2005), is written from within the embalmed mind, its forms rigid, compulsive, a fortress of meter built against a grief it dares not name. Side 2, the poetry of reflective capacity (2005-2024), is the slow, uneven sound of that ice beginning to crack, the turning of a mind back upon itself. What emerges is not recovery, and not a cure. It is something harder won: the record of a self that learned to hold what could not be solved.