The urban concrete cube she owned started to own her,
insomnia made each corner seem to now point inwards like intrusive fingers approaching while accusing her,
The loud over-encumbered street, the neighbours, in every direction marching feet, felt like a metallic woodpecker pecking, her energy it succeeded at wrecking,
The 24-hour news cycle rushed through her head so fast it gave her mind whiplash, the anxious little voices, tasks and habitual annoyances swirled around in her washing machine skull.
Her dampened mind needed to air out, made apparent by her whispered sighs and groan-like primal apartment shouts, she softened these by smoking trees,
She utilised plants and animals to keep her head and heart grounded, so why not go elsewhere and become positively surrounded by all those things pure,
She ventured forth, north, each mode of transportation less vocal than the last, bus growl, tram hum, bike tinkling before finally she removed her shoes and heard fresh soil squish beneath her toes, it was the sound of her urban walls calmly deflating, expelling all the city toxins,
The grass blew in the wind scratching its blades together like an orchestra playing her old forgotten favourite song.
She nodded slightly as wind blew each strand of her hair, causing each one to dance without care,
Her tight shoulders fall numb, as she could almost hear mother nature whisper “You’re welcome”,
She harvests the crop of hope which nature has planted in her, it germinates her soul as a smile finally shows and exhales all the postmodern semiotics that were lodged in her throat.
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.