I find myself sometimes in a grocery store,
Sometimes inside the bubble wrap,
Sometimes with the flow of a green shower,
sometimes inside the shine of a struggling cactus,
sometimes for every Utopia of a slothing verse,
sometimes inside the bohemian hair of a dissolving hippie girl,
sometimes on a pavement of this crazy trapped city.
Sometimes just nothing with a distanst paused smoke…and I am trying to pluck words out of it with woods in my mind.
There’s passing neons, there’s this lightning violin player outside the outlet of my comfort food…
and I stand there…with no creation, with no cravings for moon lit obscurity.
Depression doesn’t take lights from you…it takes the electricity and those poetic wires…
So again I will start from grocery store tommorow,
standing over the aisle of processed goods and contaminated existence.