Surrender, Seratonin!

Here's the plan.
If I can just maximize
dopamine output,
then fuck seratonin.

I've taken that mother up
to the 13th floor elevators
where elusive neurons
are plastered with the stuff,
cha-chaing, swilling toxic cocktails
in a veritable rooftoop pool party
of my cerebrum which I must crash
to inhibit these gala sweeps
of imagination.

Who wants to go ballroom dancing
with those besotted neurons misfiring,
pissing anxiety down my spine?

I want the still pond,
not the whirlpool, or soon
here it comes
my 19th nervous breakdown,
which will occur
in usual frenzied silence.

So the plan
is to put the dopamine
on a leash. Walk it
twice a day with gusto,
but meditatively.
There may be chakra activity,
my forehead aglow like ET's finger,
bursting red aura.

Them somewhere between
the inhale of brain chemistry
and the susurration of ohm,
I may yet hear lake water
lapping in low sounds
by the shore.