Head Fuzz

What is the cure for head fuzz?
The stealth mist that seeks
And cloaks the under-achiever
Reducing them to non-believer
The fog which bellows forth
To choke the thought
The best ideas
Stifled by fears
Immobilised
By the wayside

Alcohol can sometimes work
In that peculiar interval
Betwixt the stupor and the paracetamol
One mounts that wobbly timber fence
From which the world makes perfect sense

Sometimes just an accident
A little cut, a minor burn
Can grant a shred of clarity
A sense of now, for which I yearn

Mushrooms I heard can cleanse the brain
Well I won't be doing that again
Michael Buble and Shania Twain
Dueted me on a turbulent plane
In a bid to flee this tormenting trip
I took horticultural fungicide
Held the nozzle to my lip
In desperation took a sip
Immediately I didn't feel right
See all my good bacteria died
And my sub-conscious bloated up overnight
For several days I couldn't see
Even the fairies stopped speaking to me

Now with clean, unmingled blood
My head's still cloudy, full of mud
There's dangerous imps and scopey thoughts
The troubling, inappropriate sorts
See I can't get from A to B
Without pausing to wonder about C
And if I live long enough, perhaps P
While friends stride effortlessly towards Z
I'm stuck, immobilised
Contaminated with perennial fuzz of the head