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.