I made peace with my station eons ago,
Perched atop a mountain edge, overlooking a sea of my thoughts.
I sit on the ground while the tall grass sways,
Knees to my chest, drinking it all in,
Hair blowing softly by the winds of change.
A place made on my own,
Created from protection or fear, origin unclear.

Today's a little different however,
The temperature is warmer,
And I'm missing the slight rain that usually falls.

Maybe I’m out of my mind,
But I swear there’s a boat resting on my beach,
Worn and waiting with patient grace,
Rocking gently in the shallow reach,
As if to say, “You’ve sat here long enough,”
Inviting me to finally stand,
To leave this quiet mountain edge behind
And see where I might land.

I'm tired.
Not just sleepy.
Not just worn.
I mean soul-tired.
I mean breathing-feels-like-a-task tired.
I mean I wake up choking on nothing
but the weight of still being here.
Like I slept underwater
and the air hasn’t forgiven me yet.

I'm tired.
Of scrolling just to drown out the silence
because silence screams louder than sound.
Of staring at nothing
because moving means choosing
and I’m so tired of choosing
when every choice feels like a trap
in a maze I never asked to be in.

I'm tired.
Of trying to begin
when the beginning is a thousand miles away
and the end is breathing down my neck.
I’m stuck in this middle,
this endless, merciless middle
where everything is urgent
and nothing feels real.

I'm tired.
Of crying like it’s a ritual,
like maybe if I break hard enough
something will fix itself.
Maybe a task will complete.
Maybe a word will write.
Maybe I’ll feel like I earned the right
to exist today.

I'm tired.
Of surviving like it’s a performance.
Of making it through
and still feeling like I failed.
Like I borrowed this day
and forgot to pay it back
with usefulness.

I'm tired.
Of wanting to scream
but swallowing it whole.
Of wanting to be held
but not so tightly I can’t disappear.
Of wanting to be seen
but not stared at.
Of wanting to matter
but not be measured.

I'm tired.
In a way that sleep can’t touch.
In a way that makes hope feel like a scam
and joy like a prize I’ll never win.
In a way that makes even dreaming
feel like work.

I'm tired.
And still...
here I am.
Spilling myself onto this screen
because maybe if the pain has rhythm
it’ll hurt a little less.
Because maybe if I say it loud enough
someone, somewhere,
will finally understand
what I mean
when I say...

"I'm tired."

I’m flipping cards and reading the room,
The sun has set, I’ve a meeting with the moon.
I’m begging her, please, take this part out of me,
The part that holds back until she gets up to leave.

I want to be open without all the hurt,
I want something real, something that works.
I daydream and plan and fantasize life a certain way,
But I want to accept it how it is today.

I want to believe the words from his lips,
But I think they’re poison, and I’m being tricked.
I spiral and spin and tornado a lot,
Trying to be brave, something I’m not.

It feels okay until everything is quiet,
Then all of my feelings join in a riot.
I just need a second or two to relax,
But I’m always on edge, and I can’t seem to step back.

Yet I don’t fall, just stand here and wait
For the wind to call or to decide my fate.
Just enough fear to keep me frozen in place,
Standing on a cliff in a purgatory daze.

I am going on a journey.
Suddenly, it dawned on me —
what if I die?

Abrupt. Unnoticed.

Is there anything
I could leave behind?
Other than grief,
than sadness,
regret?

I realized — no.
I have none.

So I stood up,
braced myself:

I will not die.
At least,
not today.