Trying to get home.

The gentle cliches like rain on the pavement

The clinging of truth to tired metaphors

like vines growing on a lattice

Though in reverse

I thought I reached a point... where I could let go...

I have a practice: I call it depression.

I sleep a whole bunch

I eat to much

and I try

to not do

what defines me

 

I  think I will continue for some time

unable to talk about what I am going through

 

It's the nature

of the fire

to consume

what keeps it alive.