the house this hangs in,

i wish i could paint something that was more realistic, maybe that's why i think the way i do sometimes? i'm not so sure? it's confusing. my mother can pick up a brush and put it to a canvas and paint something real, things people see with their eyes everyday, and here i am, stuck painting things that don't make sense to me. maybe what stays jumbled in my head, all the jargon i can't collect or make sense of. i read once, "we paint what we see." but i don't see these things? never in my life. maybe in retaliation, i paint what i feel? i hardly ever lose flow, and when i do, i paint it grey, let it dry and start over. i get annoyed with a brush, throw it down and use my fingers because they seem to define things alot easier, better than any paint brush could ever please me. i don't know what i'm getting at really. this painting is all i can think about lately, and when i was at the house it now hangs in, i miss the warmth of that family, and how they so easily wrapped their arms around me and welcomed me through the door, right behind their beautiful creation of a son. so many smiles, and so many things to be thankful for, spent thanksgiving with people i've never met before, and they were so quick to enjoy my prescence. it's next to him that i lose all my hate, next to him that i feel compelled to do good things. next to him that i can count being, more than any other person i've known. watching him sleep on my couch the night before, still in his uniform, feet crossed still laced up in his boots, not a single sound. it's driving 15 minutes away anxious as all get out, picking him up from the bus station to bring him home the next day. sneaking out side to smoke a ciggarette sitting on the back of your fathers truck bed, just talking. running around in the yard with a hackie sack like i was 12 again. i wish being happy, was easier, and convincing you to let me show you what i see, seems just as hard. i can't get you out of my head.