Passing pastures of green, spotted with cows
where magic mushrooms pop from manure,
roadside wildflowers grow pink, purple, and yellow
while their roots permeate the aquifer below.
The clock on my wrist tick ticks
as my thoughts unravel,
unraveling as my tires turn. For a universe
as interconnected as my crochet sweater,
it seems rather difficult to feel cozy inside.
Outside brings better weather atop the one
and only town hill. There the sun rests royal
every evening dressed in clouds of clementine.
Standard sinkholes serve as inverted jungle gyms
for kids like I was; climbing rocks, roots, trunks, and branches
with the bark of a bugs back, being careful to keep balance.
Partnering in crime with nature was living
on the edge back then. Time passes and
the sun slips down from his throne to sleep.
The two lanes bend and wind round.
I pullover once his indigo blanket is draped overhead.
I lie down on the warm engine hood
while crickets and cicadas sound in my ear.
They whisper secrets of comfort as I gaze up
to the astronomical eyes of homey night skies.
Mostly in a state of existential crisis, wrapped up in my own mind and in the thoughts that weigh heavy through cyclical depression. Thoughts consisting of anxiety and unhappiness about school, society, humanity, the world, the waste, the ignorance, and my own inner conflicts of knowledge and memory cause constant yearning to exist in a more positive and productive state. My writing through this time has reflected the tendencies I have to think too much, my resolution being through doing art and through connecting with nature. My writing process is usually different every time. Sometimes by compiling small phrases I’ve jotted down in my notes, other times by writing stream of consciousness, and others are more about what word sounds intrigue me. I have found that my writing reads best when I utilize all of these tactics together.