I am laying on the ground
staring up at the ceiling,
nothing left to try for.

I lay in this dark room,
for so long,
trying to get the feeling of feeling nothing.
What some consider death,
I consider heaven.

Then I hear footsteps and the door
opens
and the light floods in
and it's my mom
and she yells "clean your room!"
but all I wanna do is
wipe,
wipe,
wipe myself off of the Earth.
But can I say that? No.
So, I just say "I'm tired."
But she doesn't know what that means.
For I am not tired and want to sleep,
like in the sense of fatigue.
no, no-no
I'm tired of living and life.
And the action of walking,
talking,
and moving.

For what you consider
death,
I consider heaven.