I’m just so tired
of carrying around these heavy bones,
of synthetic smiles and empty words,
of meaningless ***,
of dreams that cling to the sides of my head;
this chewed up, spat out,
sticky, deformed hope—
the kind you unknowingly step on,
carry with you for awhile
and notice suddenly
with a face twisted in disgust.
The same reeking kind you spend hours
digging out of the soles of your shoes
with a broken stick.

And just I’m tired.

I’m tired
of ******* the poison out of this wound,
of tasting its hot, tinny infection,
of the uncertainty of recovery,
of your one-man audience.
I’m tired of being tired,
and I’m tired of admitting
that I was a naive enough
to offer up the best parts of myself
to something pining for so much less.
I
will never be
less.

I’m tired, but I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m searching.
When I find myself again,
when I regenerate all of those best parts,
I won’t be tired.
I’ll be this amazing
[*******]
spectacle,
and I’ll make sure you and less
have the finest mezzanine seats
for the one thousand mic drops
I always knew I had in me.