Tired

Yes, I see the sun. Nice.
No, I don’t feel its warmth.
Yes, I sense the wind. Cool.
No, I don’t take pleasure in the breeze.
Yes, I can see the view. Pretty.
No, I’m not delighted.

The green meadows and creaking swing,
they feel so fake,
someone else’s dream.
Where’s mine?

I can see the smiles people give me,
laugh at the messages from friends,
hum along to some music,
joke with my family.

A brief moment of happiness,
a bright shooting star.
Gone in an instant,
swallowed again by the unyielding darkness.

Distractions.
They don’t protect me from the ghost in my head,
drive off the clouds pouring tears of depression,
get rid of this thing draining the life out of me.

I’m so, so tired.
Of myself,
of the world,
of life.

I wish I could tell someone,
express myself.
Those counselors wearing bright smiles,
saying talking will help.

They don’t understand,
it’s the process of
starting to talk that hurts.
It opens you up.

It leaves you vulnerable.
Leaves you empty because
there’s nothing that’s yours anymore.
The world taught me otherwise.

I want to help my friends,
I know they feel the same.
But how do I help them when
I can’t kill my own monster?

I want to tell my parents,
they’re here to support me,
they love me, right?
I’m terrified, though.

“You have nothing to be tired about,
you have nothing to be depressed about.
Stop making excuses,
get back to work.”

Those hurt the most.

They won't understand,
won't try to.
I'm too drained,
too exhausted to explain.

I want, I want, I want,
I wish, I wish, I wish.
All the wanting and wishing,
never-really-getting.

I’m tired of it.