When I wake up in my bed
With aching head
I hesitate from thence arise
With sleepy eyes;
I rub them with my weaken hands;
An itch in glands
From drinking something cold that night
What wasn’t right
And now regretting doing this;
Something amiss
Through haze and mistness of the day,
Of life decay
I follow birds just when they fly
High in the sky,
It remedies my hurting head
I wish was dead
And every morning just the same,
No ‘scape from pain

can I like just
go in a forest
and fall
quietly
quickly
without people
hearing me
or will they
invade me
again

Tired.

All my life I am tired.

Tired of awaiting the call

tired to wait to be small

Next to another whose tall.

Tired of trying and waiting and doing all my life

in the thrall

of the wait

to challenge the looming debate

and crying my eyes

To sleep.

Too Late.

For time slows to a creep

and winds all my life.

I am tired

and waiting

all my life

to sleep.

Hair a mess from what she can tell
in the mirror.
Photographs lying face-flat
in their frames over the mantel
beside the urn.
She gets up, sits down -
"Oh, what's the point?" -
and dials for her sister who has experience in this.
After the grief they share a *** of coffee and make plans to do this again.

Pointing out
the truth.
Preaching
the future.

It's all for naught.
As words spoken
remain unheard.

Ignored you start showing.
Giving all you have.

But again
all is for naught.
As results
remain unseen.

So you keep toiling
silently hidden
unknown unseen
til the end.

i’ve grown weary
of this story
growing
weary
of this frame
oh so weary
of this cosmos
in which I got this name

and I can’t remember why I came

I’m fearful for the leaving
can’t seem to quit the game
oh how I love this loathsome body
I carry with me night and day

and when I look into the mirror
I see a stranger face

sweet solace sought in speaking
my wearisome refrain
no rest foreseen in sleeping
if I must wake again
in lukewarm purgatory
on waves that toss and strain
in sitcoms just repeating
weary lines and jokes again

and again

When striving
for joy and happiness
becomes fatigue with stress,
do I need
rest and rejuvenation?

Writing gets hard,
but the sky and the stars tell me
that I am the star even in times
when the rhymes don’t flow that smoothly
and life isn’t a movie.

When I’m at the cliff’s
precipice and my fingers are stiff,
tremors wracking my body
as I struggle to embody
something confident and godly,
it seems so much easier
to burn away than to stay drained.

But prose is my way
of praying,
and even if the deities of my brain
decide I must embrace pain another day,
I take literary measures in an attempt
to stay sane.