Shameful Tired

 

What about something happy

            Worth laughing about?

Constant miseries file away at my face

            I can’t smile

Or even hint a toothless grin.

            I am-again-mourning a melancholy

that selfishly sits in me.

 

I am not so sad as I say.

Busy, so hardly a second for It

            or myself to feel

Dedication to the books and pens

Pencils are to jab and tear at skin.

 

Ah.

Sighing is, much too uncommon here.

‘Weary me’

Should be a shout or a whisper

But I am

So

Tired.

 

11 May 2004