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.