I’m tired of wanting, and not knowing what to ‘do’;
I’m tired of yearning, for a life that hasn’t come true.
I’m tired of pain that doesn’t ever go away;
Of waking deeply aching, aches that last all day.
I’m tired of not being able to fully, freely be me,
Without a ‘just kidding’ disclaimer for maddeningly sensitive peeps.
I’m tired of absent manners when I simply text to ask you;
‘Hey, this looks fun, would you like this too?’.
I’m tired of having to adapt for a culture that doesn’t budge for me;
I’m tired of being called ‘aggressive’ for simply having a view,
Or for speaking it with a PASSION with which bland folk don’t know what to do.
I’m tired that as I write, I have to censor myself, editing thoughts as I go,
Just because my character is too bold and sharp, more than people really know.
I’m tired of being disposable, to people who profess love for me,
I’m tired of words which are drowned in the silence of inaction’s vast sea.
And suppose I am tired of being tired,
Of finding it so tiring, just by trying to be me.