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.

The summer sun's an auger drilling deep
To sap my will and hasten my decline,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
From when its faintest rays begin to creep
Beyond the long horizon's boundary line,
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
When morning comes, I'll buy my living steep,
But living wilts me 'till I can recline
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep
As if I died, as if I'd get to keep
The scrapings that I'd earned, as if they're mine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
Each moment sowing seeds I'll never reap
Comes twisting down around my brain and spine -
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
All wisdom, wits, and words ring hollow, cheap,
Some wilted offerings at a broken shrine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.

I am tired;
As a man on a journey
Whose only home is carried on his back,
As a poet who has nothing
But an empty mind and a page that is blank,
As a child born into poverty
With no future and no going back.

It grips me, weighing me
Like a puppy in a sack,
The dark river beckons
Ready to devour,
The cold grip of death
From a breath,
I cannot quite catch.

I am tired
That no rest can cure,
No sleep can quench
No meal can nourish,
No vista uplift,
Tired of existence
To the core of my being.

I know a man who locks himself inside
His head, his conversations, tucked away
Behind a maze of cheer. Each day, he's lied
A thousand times. He clocks out for the day
And, free but weary, sheds the mask for sleep.
I start the day with coffee, bitter, black,
Which suits my mood just fine. I earn my keep,
then turn around and give until I lack.
The coffee doesn't last, and by the end
I've found myself a stronger, harder drink.
I watch him bottle workdays up, my friend,
And brew himself instead. I'd like to think
We both get by. That doesn't do much good.
This place devours us and drinks our blood.

I want to fly into the skies,
like nightingales
and rest on roses
with my tender being.
Now my mind lies
on each leaf,
like shadows do in the summer.

If I could only tell
all my worries to myself,
because I am chained to tiredness,
and so cannot talk,
let alone sing about them.