I was sick of myself, sickened by my lack of motivation. I was unwilling to climb in bad weather - and there had been 28 straight days of it that spring. I was too stuck on the mountains to go rock climbing in the south - or take up another sport. I took up drinking and self-pity instead. I picked up my pen sometimes. I wrote some fairly awful poems. This seemed to be one of the better ones.


Give me the hammer
or the winter storm that kills
something that stops me
with finality
with certainty
not this lame excuse of
I'm a sheep amongst other sheep
(whose weakness is oppressing)
longing for a real wolf
to give this life some meaning

© 2015 Mark F. Twight. All rights reserved.