I Harvest My Depression

I harvest my depression from a field lush with overgrown emotion attempt to process it into miniscule morsels easier to consume as it liquifies in my digestive tract my stomach aches for freedom as the despair refuses to pass perhaps if I drown it in drink the pain will become bearable at least my personality will become temporarily more bubbly an asterisked aside to an otherwise melancholy mood mist permeates the field as a scarecrow startles me from more pleasant emotions left un-plucked on the vines their fruit souring— at home, alone with my cat, my mind wanders from fruit to wine.