I am tired;
tired of waking, tired of sleeping,
tired of crying, tired of holding back tears,
tired of breathing, tired of holding my breath,
tired of working hard, tired of being lazy,
tired of living, tired of dying,
tired of love, tired of hate,
tired of dreams, tired of dreamless nights,
tired of thoughts, tired of blankness of mind,
tired.

as if the world could collapse with one disapproving
syllable spoken from your mouth,
as if the reason you hardly sleep at all is because the sun
and moon got in an argument over who gets to spend their hours with
you and decided to compromise,
as if the rain falls simply because you look so lovely with
an umbrella in your hands and I secretly forget mine
on purpose because I want to stand under yours with
you.

a tiredness overcomes me that is deeper than love
and duller than feeling
I am not sleeping
I have not slept
         and yet I do not think of sleep
         so what do I think of?
I think of love and warmth but my veins are cold and
sticking out of my hands in a disgusting way that bothers me
quite extensively.
I want to get a surgery to get rid of all the veins in my
body, can I do that?
if you know a doctor please refer me.

I've always had enough money,
and enough parental love;
my youth is in full spring,
I've always had more than enough.
But there's one thing that I'm lacking,
keeping me in want of satisfaction,
though what it is
I'm not quite sure.

Death used to frighten me, keeping me awake
at all hours of the night.
Thoughts of my own mortality would arise
in the strangest situations, at the strangest times,
disturbing my relative piece of mind
with the recognition of the impermanence of that mind itself.
I knew that someday I would not be thinking of death-
I would not be thinking at all.
I would simply be a part of the ground
or dust sitting in a vase in the room of someone I have not yet known-
dust now, dust then, what's the big difference?
Well, one of us realizes our own dustiness.

Now, death seems more like a vague invitation
with no set due date for a reply.
Perhaps I have already rsvp'd to Death's invitation
simply by being alive,
but the event seems unknown, far in the distance.
Now sometimes it seems favorable
to invite Death over myself for a more intimate evening,
but it is a hard choice to make,
and one still bringing so much dread.

Here I am, eating alone in our favorite cafe
and wishing you were here.
Can I help feeling so lonely?
I plan on staying miserable for as long as I am,
and no one on this Earth can stop me.
The food is very good, but I must force myself to eat.
What made you want to leave me?