I am ready to write pensive, tired prose
I am ready to wilt like a petal, dying rose
My laptop is dying as I watch the horizon
My body is lying as my breath is sighing
A million moments all wrapped up for me
The wine in my glass has drunk me to sleep

Y'know that feeling?
When your body is tired
and your brain is too
Not sleepy
Although you'd probably be out
Quicker than a toddler at nap time
If you had to lay on the cot
No, not sleepy,
Exhausted.
Drained.
Tapped out.
All the coffee in the world
Wouldn't stop those lids
From drooping
Even sitting, resting,
Takes energy
Energy that is
All but washed up
Running on empty
And you know
That you've got to wake up tomorrow
And do it all again.

I am.
I am a cold, crisp autumn field.
I am a plush scarf in the breeze,
I am omnipresent, and yet never near.
I am a crackling fire in a winter freeze.
I am crumbling, cold, and free.
I am encumbered by the slush and snow.
I am waiting toe-to-toe.
You have seen me,
slouched, burdened, fatigued by the stress of the day,
waiting in the back of the bus bay.
I am all, and I am more.

there was a girl who was tired from working too much.
she pleaded for the work to stop but it just kept coming.
drowning, drowning she felt like she couldn’t even breathe.
sleep didn’t even help her escape the immense responsibilities she had on her shoulders.

they keep coming.
they keep pummeling her.
they keep asking more of her.

she is spending herself.
she is spent.
she is exhausted.
she needs a break.
she needs to rest.

but rest is elusive.
she can’t stop working.
she has to keep on working and keep on going.
staying strong?
what does that even mean.

strength is all she has.
she relies on herself alone.

There are certain things
I cannot explain such as

This suffocating flesh  
This howling knife
This harmful yearning   
This hungry heart

I’m interested in a free trial
to the south of soil.

Just a free trial, you see...

Resting for a while in the roots
To avoid such crushing daily disputes.

i used to spend a long time with you and thinking about you.
i would write and sing yarns and threads of your life.
we busied ourselves for hours, days, away from
just about whatever it was that kept me sad.
it seems like a lot of years have passed
and even though we're still so close
it seems more and more like i,
just can't spare the effort to.
i love you and always will
don't think that changes
but i can't write letters
or play pretend with,
all my secret friends
i just feel tired yet,
not forgotten or
alone or lost or
is there a way,
an expression
of how wiser
but without
motivation
i feel now?

maybe just
fully lucid
and aware
the clarity
of a mind
only idle
that life
my life
wasn't
worth
much
at all.
how
sad.

and that it wasn't worth the fatigue it took to get here. but what can i do? i am at a dead-end, there is nowhere to go. if i write a longer line, i break the trend. the trend wasn't even very good to begin with. i think a few of those lines are too long for the pattern. i spent some minutes trying to resolve them but i wasn't satisfied.

in truth, though it often takes that idled age to realize, past the self-conscious judgement and harsh, masochistic self-critique
the point is not to be unique or force anything.
it's to express the heart,
because that's not something anyone gets to do very often, especially not to strangers.

if i've gone long past being frightened of death or spiders, i'd expect some words to not spur my anxiety so much.

anxiety is just that; fear of my, your own unreasonable expectations
not the fear of being ridiculed, or the complex fear of success;
not even a fear of being hated, or forgotten and never remembered
it's the fear of never being known to even be forgotten
that awful dreadful horror of not being noticed at all.
not becoming stronger as an individual, but less.
and it can be fatal.

this thing we
choose
to call beautiful

he

takes his time and
stirs up still things
hidden inside
     to
exhaust the mind

then

settles down and
infests, but

come o beloveds of
darkness and decay

for day
    is near