weary
A visceral tiredness
felt not in the
eyes, but rather
in the soul,
a deep tiredness that
never seems to go
away
no matter
how much rest one has had
In the past i'd
bolt awake in a cold
sweat, awake and
alert, ready for any thrat
that awaited me beyond
the realm of thought
and touch
Now, i find it so
so hard to even get
up, no matter
how many alarms i'd
set for the
next morning
lucid, but not truly
awake,
in a state of limbo.
Worn down
down to the bone
a dulled edge
taken off the night before
and without the
magic of a modern alchemy
i lie, unaware yet not unconscious
Energy drinks out the wazoo
paired with a shitload of nicotine gum
grinds a new edge every
morning, so I may leave
this trance and get
to work
not working for the knife
but i am the knife
left dull and exhausted
Like a knife,
sharpening wears down the
base material of the blade
and there is no way to
add more material to the blade
permanent wear
shortens its lifespan
There is a point where
a knife cannot be sharpened
any further
and as i wake each
passing day, i realize
that the stimulants
no longer have the same effect
and so
i need more.
Thustly, a deep and
visceral weariness permeates
the soul, the consequence
of a nonstop assault upon
my sanity, a gnawing feeling
to just surrender
lay down my arms and slip into the void
One day the combat will cease
one day i won't have to fight
the grindstone will lie still
no stimulants need be taken
and a glimmer of hope
that i may wake to
the golden rays of the sun
on that day, i will stand still in the long quiet
and finally rest my weary soul.