It’s been like painting from memory,   But a memory that’s not mine   I've been pushing paint where i though it should go.   Trying to pick hues to compliment colors that I have yet to see.   Painting spring when all I’ve ever known is fall. And winter was the expectation.   Aren’t we all so sick of always falling short?   I have been for some time.   So let’s leave words for the defining,   And let brushstrokes guide the titles.   We've been summed up too neatly by old tittles that we thought bestowed insight.   This life is more than what you claim   My only concern is how I define: "peace of mind."