A tired interlude

Like a bare tree
tired
of wind and rain,
as the street walls
of posters
and graffiti pain.
tired
like a dry land from
the harshest sun,
a city of dirty
smog, a poison kiss,
a chemical gun.
tired of cigarettes,
those deathly friends,
who are with me
until I hit a
dead end.
tired of the misconceived nature
of feelings,
tired of myself and
emotional dealings.
tired of
waiting, searching,
self-destroying discharge,
late night
piss,
alcoholic charge;
of marketing exaggeration
on the TV with no feelings
I’m tired awake,
tolerating social
disorderings.
as a faceless ghost
tired of misunderstood
youth,
anticipation of age,
escaping
the real truth.
tired of ego
and its nasty attacks,
tired of appeasing my
confidence in
trust.
tired of people and their
celebrity hysteria,
of judgemental fools
and their unreasonable
criteria.
and because
I can’t see
where is the end,
I’m tired of my voice
and its reticence to
offend.
and now, if I could,
I would deny this
as a write-off
if not
for that simple need
to tell the world to
FUCK OFF.
but as everything
stands
there’s nothing
I can really do
so slowly
I’m even becoming
tired
of you.
and I wish
I could
somehow
get myself
positively
wired
but it’s
more and more
likely
that I will
end up dying
tired.
 
and only dead
I hope
I will finally rest
sane—
 
and only
dead
if I’m
lucky
I might
feel
alive
 
again.



©Tom Del Braco 

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