Starvation

I'm starving.

Feasting on empty air and struggling sleep,

Yet I find no substance in anything less than

Mountains in early morning fog,

Soft rain on my face and arms,

Legs aching from hiking, arms burning from rowing

Across the lake to distant fantasies.

And I am tumbling through the office,

Through the days so vanilla sweet,

Plain and structured out like it matters.

Like any of it matters

When all my heart can long for is to be

Lost in the wilderness

Or lost in creation and writing.

I long to be home, to be painting

To be anything but at a desk.

I was not made from the earth

To sit in plastic and dry wall till death.

And so I churn and plea like every artist

That I will find escape in my work

That I will find money in words,

Find a living wage in artwork,

And leave the shackles created

When farms were abandoned for

The industrial revolution.

A revolution from what? From what?

I would not go back, but I cannot find forward.

I'm starving.

Starving to live the life that beckons.