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 titles That we thought bestowed insight This life is more than what you claim My only concern is how I define: "peace of mind".