One More Hour…

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How far shall I push myself
Just to feel like I’m awake?
I’ve still left so much upon the shelf…
Is that wisdom, or a grand mistake?

I want to feel like it is over
And I have won it all at last;
But much like finding four leaf clovers,
No luck comes until the work is passed.

Frayed

I am tired of tomorrow;
I am clinging to today,
But not because I wish to borrow
One more hour so that I can stay.

I merely have no wish to be there,
To have to face another day
When there is nothing here that I should fear
And yet, still I feel my life is frayed.

Apathy is a Survival Trait

I say that I am tired,
But I’m meaning something else;
I’m meaning that I’m tired
Of this life, of this house.

I’m tired of the moment
That I am living in;
I’m tired of the words
That never come when I beckon.

I’m tired of the people
Trying to tell me what I am,
When I already know,
And I’m just trying not to give a damn.

***

Apologies; this one’s darker than perhaps it ought be. I’ve been having issues with a member of my family lately; he doesn’t seem to realize that no one is more critical of me than me, and it feels like he’s made it his mission to remind me constantly that I’m useless, that I’m “mean,” that I don’t care enough, etc. To be fair, I’m not the only one he does this to, and I have some understanding of the reasons behind it. But I am also really, really sick of it. Because I actually care what he thinks. And nothing I ever do is good enough, so… What’s the point?

Of course, I’ve never really talked to him about it. The last time I tried expressing my frustrations to him, I called him an attention whore. That was months ago. He still brings it up. That’s a common problem with me. With most of my family, actually. It’s either 0 or 100. Nothing in between. So when someone asks me what’s wrong, I just tell them I’m tired.

It’s not entirely untrue.

Phantasmagoria

You say I should be wide awake;
But I tell you that I’m half asleep.
You never seem to realize
What it is I really mean.

My mind is in a daze;
My days pass in a haze.
My eyelids are a veil between
What’s behind them, and this place.

You insist that anything
More than eight hours is a luxury.
Who am I to disagree?
But it doesn’t mean a thing to me.

Days and nights are just the same;
In the gray they went and there they came.
And when the gray is all I’ve ever seen,
What’s that mean for my weary brain?

You tell me to get over it;
To go and drink some coffee.
But I feel as if I’m dreaming it…
And my eyelids grow so very heavy.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM fears:
Is that a voice that I’m hearing,
Come from downstairs?
Just the A.C.? The clock?
Or perhaps it’s my brother.
Or is the back door unlocked,
And it’s really something other?

Maybe it’s the dogs,
Barking next door;
Maybe it’s the neighbors,
On their back porch.
Maybe it’s the wind,
Howling in the distance;
Or maybe it is robbers,
Marauding in the kitchen.

Atrophy

I don’t know what to do;
It feels like such an empty room.
But it’s more than that, too…
And naught can cheer me, not even the moon.

There is a life in coldness;
An energy in the storm.
But in this day I feel an emptiness,
Like something once loved has grown worn.

I feel the ever-growing dreariness;
The ever-later morn.
I lack the will for this,
To reach for any more.

I would rather sit and wait;
I would rather slowly atrophy.
I would rather hope for fate;
Even as I claim to have no destiny.