Nowhere to walk

It's a sad thing, that I only feel myself when I say "Mark, what the hell are you doing?"

The feeling of spring,
as the snow begins to melt.
The knowledge that each beautiful day comes without request.
The scent of orange and grapefruit blossoms as the bloom.
The perfect line of poetry,
the finest painting.
The relief felt in a soft wind,
the hope felt as new grass grows.
The first drop of rain,
and the sun glinting through the last as the light steals a glance from between the storm clouds.
The feeling of laying down to rest,
of a deep and relieving sigh.
The wonder of all things new,
and the comfort of all things familiar.
The joy of starting a new book,
and the satisfaction of finishing it.
The perfect symphony,
and the hush of all who hear it.
A warm, clear night
and a cool, cloudless day.
The vastness of the sea,
the softness of the sand.

Now, if I could only find one of these things. But they continue to elude me.


There is one blazing, glaring, undeniable difference! But lips pursed and chest tightened, Its of no consequence.

Close my eyes, and I'm on Howell Mountain Rd. The trees are moving past me as I go to my favorite small town, pleased to simply be buying bread and sitting in the car.
But to close these eyes, I show weakness. I exude it.

There is simply no road to walk on, yet the path I desire is so simple.

My request
is
so
simple.

Leave it to the Hills. Leave it to the real world, those who wish that life. Leave it to lukewarm water and ice cold sheets.

I'll have none of it, and I refuse to play these stupid games.
The lying,
The faking,
The biting of my tongue for the happiness of others,
All of it.

I know hope that each wall hit, each wrong step, each effort failed gets me closer to where I want to be


I am tired of these glasses, these clothes, these shoes.

Is it so much that I ask to rest in those blankets, but for a moment?