Laying silently
watching ferocious flames
through a tiny window pane
and this is enough, this is enough, this is enough.
It’s perfect, it’s mine.

Used to have to panic, manically
fill my eyes, my mind, frantically
fill every second
one thing, nothing, was ever enough
had to fill my time, my mind with three
with mindless bullshit on TV
and crosswords, and laptops, or tidying, clicking, cleaning, switching repeatedly.

Switch it, switch it, switch it off
Check it, check it. Check again
Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop.
This frantic mind would never, never end
I was stuck on repeat, in a spiral of defeat
In a never-ending scene, a constant block, an OCD routine.

Now this is enough, this is enough, this is enough.

But happiness blocks, writing stops.

And then…
Do I want it back?
Feign troubles for art?
Uncover that troubled, troubled head?
Regain that controlled, addicted, lonely heart?
That beautiful compulsion to repeat, undo, redo, retread?