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LIFE IS HARD. I’ve always lived under the assumption that I can do everything—but I can’t. I’ve always focused on rich, successful, hardworking, loving, living, and graditude, but I feel poor and desolate in every way. I’ve always walked faster, and dreamed longer than days past and yet, after all, I’m just me. Trying hard.

Maybe I’m not trying. Maybe all this is just passing of time, relentless allusions of failure and procrastination, soft grievances of waiting and a subtle wish for passage to fame, or at least recognition. Am I wrong? Where am I, and when can I forget? When can I achieve?

Why does a multitude of words and images, feigned to be all I’ve got, all I’ve got, all I’ve got, always feel tangibly mediocre—

lackluster—

lost?

?

I’ve not the words. You’ll always be better.

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To hitch and hike

Wash and bike
Travel down the road
To dust and spike
Read and write
And put things in their rows
Against the wind
A tinge and sin
Travel through the wires
The pace replaced
By pause, disgrace
And countered with desire.
I’m going to go
Watch and flow
Travel by the dream
Stitch and sew
And row, and row
And wish I’d never seen
The haste and waste
Of dumps and lakes
Travel up the hill
The give and take
And lonely taste
Of one voice and one feel.