Aging

I’m am imprisoned by city blocks, starched shirts, and ridged collars.

I want a home made from evergreens that will burn as bright as the sun.

I am bound by cropped haircuts, gas prices, and shitty beer that I drink because I don’t want to.

I need dirt beneath my nails and hair on my feet. I need spring waters to bathe in and join the salmon in their pursuit.

I am claustrophobic from the demands of others and the fear of saying no, so scared to come across as boring or for who I truly am.

I want to walk naked in the forest, climb trees that have not been scarred by careless cigarettes tossed from windows by men that call themselves hippies, but have never once cared for Earth.

I am a mystic in a land that banned magic. A painter living in world where black fumes pollute the atmosphere raining ash down blotting out the color.

My soul is in a state of sickness that is curable if only I would care for myself. But the moon is almost full and I need to drink again.

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