Emma Sims Jun 3
My body is strong,
yet something is wrong;
This feeling deep in my insides.

Coffee won't shift it,
nor will chocolate biscuits;
My skeleton is where it resides.

Deep in my tibula,
my cranium and fibula;
Every bone within my sides.

It's all in my head,
where is my bed;
I think I'll turn in for the night.
Feeling worn out and stressed lately
Jo Barber May 21
I was fourteen
when my mama told me
you work until you die.
Came home my first day.
Had a few bucks in my pocket;
was flying pretty high.
Didn't know what she meant.

Now I've got a lot of money,
(at least more than before)
and I think I understand.
It never ends -
the up, the down,
the coming back around.

I'll work until I die.
Pay the rent, buy the groceries.
Pocket change for a pack of smokes
and a coffee, black and piping hot.
Once you start,
it never ends.

If I ever had a real shot,
I must have missed.
Lily May 5
Every fiber of my body
Trembles with every breath,
Threatening to slip into sleep
With every blink.
The fatigue fills my body like
Air fills a balloon
And I think I’m about to pop.
Every little thing sends bolts
Of pain through my body,
Yet my brain doesn’t fully
Comprehend it, my mind a
Foggy haze that simply wants
To stop.
It wants everything to stop.
The thinking, the pain, the exhaustion.
Another night,
Another day,
Another night,
Another day,
A never-ending cycle of
Never being fully awake or fully asleep.
Insomnia.
zeebee Apr 26
zzz
exhaustion
bone-deep
i can't fight it
it pulls at my lungs
constantly,
trying and trying
to make me succumb.

i know it's right.
i do not sleep enough
but i don't remember
what it feels like
to be fully awake-
a time when fatigue did not weigh me down,
lost in my childhood amnesia.

exhaustion
my conscious mind
drifting gently like
a sandstorm in an hourglass.
i am not strong enough.
it forces my body
to submit
to the weight of my
tired eyelids.

exhaustion is the constant of my current existence
will i ever sleep long enough
to be free of it's power?
Lily Mar 30
The darkness around me is impermeable,
Gloomy, funereal.
It weighs down on me, and I imagine
Atlas holding up the sky,
The unbearable burden on his shoulders,
And I feel the same pain.
I struggle to breathe,
Each breath tears at my throat,
Rips its seams and sinews
Until I can barely speak.
My tattered wings flutter uselessly,
My muscles losing strength every moment,
My vigor being drained by the darkness surrounding me,
Until I can hardly stand.
Suddenly, a brilliant ray of light shines from
Somewhere in the darkness,
A beacon, directing me somewhere.
Warmth, hope, joy, peace, and relief flow out from
The light source in a everlasting stream.
A river of light, a torrent of happiness, that
Drags me out of my stupor, injecting new
Life into my veins, causing my wings to flitter with
Renewed aspirations.
I fly haltingly towards the light, drawn to it by
An almost supernatural force.
However, the closer I get, the harder it is to see myself;
My wings fade, becoming almost transparent, and
A piece of the dull ache returns, a remnant of the darkness.
The pain gets closer as I get closer to the light,
Closer to you.
You are my light, and I am your moth.
Everything good, everything true, you represent,
But I can’t touch you, can’t truly know you.
I can’t lose myself.
I can’t be your moth anymore.
Find yourself a butterfly.
Lynx Mar 14
I'm tired
yet here I write
beneath the bright light of my room
too tired to move the trash off my bed
writing in hopes others will understand
will resonate with me
will be happy
for some reason, or another
I just want everyone to be happy
but I know it's not that easy
and I wish I knew that when I started out
because I wouldn't have painted myself in this corner
with no way out
now that my mind has had itself firmly planted
in that frame of thought...
Anixety and depression is a bitch, man. So is trying to make everyone else happy when you can't even make yourself happy.
At dusk the tired Sun asked,
can I set?

I felt asleep, before reply.
Theme: When, simplicity is sophistication.
Erik McKee Feb 19
Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,  
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.  

Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.
Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.
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