I arrived at the Friday night meeting to the smell of weed brownies,
In an effort to get people to remember reminiscing the sensation of forgetting,
People perched around the oven spitting out facts about some apparent white widow,
The group each take turns boasting about how they have mastered the recipe in their own ways,
I’m offered a slice, recall a past mental price and decline, explaining it puts me deep in a haze,
A yet unearned acquaintance sees my honesty, lack of bullshit and dislike of social plays,
The social merchant reaches in his pocket and presents a small vial in big style,
Couple of drops on the tongue, be fun, stay young, you’ve nowhere else to be for a while,
The recipe of me has never included the ingredient of CBD,
Uninformed preachers’ words cause guilt as my taste buds wilt with each drops splash,
My mouth goes numb and I feel loose inside, but I start to physically feel stiff,
As if I’ve been practising foreplay with medusa and I’m trying to resist the fatal kiss,
As usual, I fight against the experience that’s grabbing my hand to run,
I panic and turn against my own decision, I always choose the bad place over fun,
Is there an apothecary that can carry me away from this feeling that’s too free for me?
Or even any social pilots or unsocial parents who can help ground me,
My spirit animal in friend form laughs at my panic and gives me my strain,
She proclaims “I wrapped it in hemp skins to help relieve your pain”
I attempt the hemp to help hold my skin, this’ll keep my inner thoughts from being free,
Wait this shouldn’t work should it, I do my usual bitch and whine,
Damn Robert relax, you do this every time, she shushes me a gentle shush adding a “you’ll be fine”,
Put your phone on airplane mode and switch your psychoanalyzing offline,
She launches an “if you want to be free, be free” at me,
It hits the bullseye in my mind and I finally unwind, with permission, inhibitions flee,
I flow with the flow and let the smile grow, letting my lack of control show,
Wouldn’t you know my luck, not one single person gives one single fuck,
I never learnt how to bake, I tried to learn how to write, so now with a filtered sight, I’ve come to the conclusion I could never see, that the main unwritten instructions belong to the recipe of me.
Robert Potter is an Irish poet, writer and audio engineer living in Dublin.
His first poetry book will be published this summer. He believes writing, music and any creative output are the key to dealing and coping with depression and anxiety. He is also a “lightweight” when it comes to weed so he enjoys only a small toke or two on the weekends to help unwind, or to help gain focus for any/all creative outputs.