The road to Veneta is

straight and narrow.

Fern Ridge on the right,

flooded fields on the left.

Trees always all around.

Muddy water 

  (from rainfall and the carved out lake)

leaked onto the road all summer.

The sky was often a 

  brown-blue or greenish color;

  sick, just like my stomach.


Angry raindrops

pounded asphalt in its infancy.

The local Bimart appeared almost abandoned at times,

but Ray's is highway robbery.

A simple town,

tainted with memories of bad visits.

Veneta isn't a terrible place. Being honest.

But I can't stand to

  taste the air anymore.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741