I’m Tired

I’m tired…

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.


I Cut My Hair

So, I wrote this after imagining being widowed – at least my morbid imagination is fuel for creativity…

‘I cut my hair. You’d hate it.

But “you’re” not “you” and you’re not here,

so why should I care-

now, it’s only hair.

A week ago, it was a *symbol* of devotion-an outward sign of my inward love;

running down my back- eagerly seeking the stroke of husband’s hands.

Now, it’s just wire, thread, wool, shorn, cut-off and dead on the hairdresser’s floor-

the *sign* switched off,

the Love spilled out with

no hands to catch it.

How suddenly death devalues everything-
it steals meaning from that which one didn’t even consider to get valued in the ‘before’.

And now is only the grey ‘after’-

Filled to bursting with the heaviness of nothingness,

and deafened by the clanging sound of memories and things raped of value:

Scraping shells which previously where hands Husband caressed;

No Man’s Land where previously lay Husband’s head.

And now, a bare neck,

previously draped with a wife’s thick locks to please her Love.

But you cannot please the dead.

So what was, in the ‘before’ an offering,

is now only hair-

And without your smile, your gaze your stroke.

I do not care.’

(Written 1.1.15)

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