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this thing called life
is growing more
wearisome daily,
so much so that some mornings
it takes awhile for my feet to hit
the floor;
when i look in the mirror
i see the exhaustion in my eyes
i'm too young to be this tired
sometimes,
this thing called living is a chore
and i have to remind myself to stay awhile,
just like i lovingly do for you
but you don't know that i'm
weary, too;
i'm busy trying to save you
and don't wanna burden you
with my problems.
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
