I think I am tired of dying
in every dream my aching mind
creates when I black out;
scraping my knuckles
on the walls of this dark tunnel I call a life.
I keep hoping that after I round the next corner
I’ll see the light everyone talks about
in front of me,
but I don’t.
I think I am tired of looking
up into the night sky from rough shingles,
trying to see through the stars;
praying my eyes will find something
worth more than this black hole I call a heart.
I keep hoping that after tonight
I won’t have to ask who I am again,
but tonight has lasted
my whole existence.
I think I am tired of this
analytical nonsense that fills my head
every fucking second of every day;
breaking apart my skull
on this wall I call cognition.
I keep hoping that someday
everything surrounding my skin
will fall into place,
but doubt is always resting
in the creases of my brain.