Some days,
I go on adventures.
I find things,
or places,
or people,
to write poems about.
On those days,
my mind doesn't turn itself inside out and empty its contents through my tear ducts.
On those days,
I'm in a dream,
where nothing can touch me,
and I'm completely free.
And sometimes I do things as simple as
read a book near a pool,
or paint something nice.
I call those days my good days,
because though my depression still throbs at the back of my head like a headache,
it makes that day sweeter.
And maybe I wish
I could share every thought that came to me that day,
but I go on my peaceful escapades alone,
and I have nobody to talk to.
Sometimes I wish,
a stranger would sit next to me and strike up a conversation.
And maybe we'd talk about the weather,
or music,
or art.
It'll give me the satisfaction
of knowing I met someone new.
YOU ARE READING
the city
Poetryand no matter how much you water scorched grass and withering weeds, you will never make a garden re-grow -M.R c.2016
