a grifter’s picnic

depression and boredom 
mark my days 
like bruises. 
i am inveterate
in my propensity 
to complain.
a weak 
and malcontented
my proclivity for abuse
is banal, 
mediocre. there is also strength
and goodness 
in my footfall. 
part of the nothingness 
i seek 
will grant me freedom
to be. without 
compulsory analysis. maybe
this jittery panic 
is what it feels like
to be
at cocoon’s translucent
edge. cracking. unfurling
into something 
different. or; 
feed for waiting fish. 

photo credit: Wally Allen

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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