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

Mark Twight
Mark Twight