I knew a girl who was as highly strung
as Blanche Dubois
She had a sweet soul,
one of the last real ones perhaps:
vibrant and compassionate, any time of day.
I offered her the cure
to her constant plight
and once she let it in,
it eased her zapping mind.
But the brain still relentlessly
swishes
and
swallows
every good thought in her domain,
until it’s coated
in an atrocious slime.
‘Anxiety,
go for a holiday’
I heard her chanting one afternoon
from mid-battle ground...

You got wheels
Come pick up the cure
Feel the peace beneath your feet
It’s always been there honey,
You just gotta let it
paint your landscape: bright.