Lyrics

Ladies and gentlemen,
apparently
we are supposed
to regulate
our emotions.
Very sensible.
Very adult.
Very beige.
I have
a better idea.
Hit it.
My pulse goes up.
My thoughts go loud.
The nervous system
starts behaving
like it owns
the fucking building.
Fine.
I know the drill.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Name five things
you can see.
Lovely.
Now give me
a bassline.
Because sometimes
calm
doesn’t arrive
quietly.
Sometimes
it kicks
the door open,
wearing heels,
with a brass section
behind it.
Turn it up.
Shake it out.
Move the fear
through the body.
Kick, snare,
horns, repeat.
Very advanced
emotional technology.
Fuck repression.
Give it rhythm.
Give it somewhere
to go.
If the heart
won’t sit still,
teach it
how to dance.
Anger?
Tempo.
Anxiety?
Syncopation.
Sadness?
Minor seventh.
Excellent.
We are making
progress.
Apparently
the body
likes instructions
better
when they come
with percussion.
Who knew?
Probably
the body.
We just
weren’t listening.
Turn it up.
Shake it out.
Move the fear
through the body.
Kick, snare,
horns, repeat.
Very advanced
emotional technology.
Fuck pretending
you feel nothing.
Feel it.
Move it.
Let the rhythm
do some
of the carrying.
This is not
running away.
This is
changing state.
Breath.
Pulse.
Movement.
Sound.
A little dopamine
doing paperwork
in the corner.
A little serotonin
trying to look
professional.
And me
in the middle
saying,
“Wonderful.
Can somebody
please make
the fucking trumpet
louder?”
One-two.
Breathe.
Three-four.
Move.
Five-six.
Shake off
whatever
doesn’t belong
in your bloodstream
all night.
Seven-eight.
Better.
See?
Science.
Almost.
Turn it up.
Shake it out.
Let the body
finish
what the mind
keeps interrupting.
No shame.
No elegance.
No need
to explain
every damn feeling.
Sometimes
the healthiest thing
you can do
is give chaos
a beat
and dance
until it learns
some manners.
Emotional regulation.
But make it
swing.