Tired

"How are you," she asked.

And the only thing I could think to say, the only thing that came to mind

... was that I am tired.


I am so tired.

I am tired of people asking me how I am
and never really wanting to know the answer,
the truth that hides behind every "fine" or "OK".

The simple truth that I am, really, tired.

Really, really tired.

I am tired of smiling through a day that is just another collection of pain.

I am tired of keeping to the bright side of the street.

I am tired of being strong, of being brave, of pretending again
that I am not just weeping while standing here pretending life is sweet.

I am tired.  So very, voluminously, vociferously, volcanically tired.

And the worst thing about being so tired is that I cannot sleep.
For if I close my eyes, if I try to get some rest,
if I slip into slumber and start to dream, a dream so deep,
I may miss a chance, The Chance that might be my best -

... to get what I need so that I can stop being tired.

And mostly I'm tired, so tired of ... of being me.

I am so tired I do not even know who I would be if I should stop being tired.

Everything about me is so warped, so wrecked, so wrong from being so tired for so long.

Would I even know me should I stop being tired?



"How are you," she said.

And I said I was fine.
I lied, because lying to people that don't want to hear the truth is easier.

It saves the explanations.

It stoppers the uncomfortable silences,
the pretending, the pitying, the posturing that people perform
when they really don't want to know.

I am so tired that I'll say what they expect to hear
instead of what I really should say, the real way
that I am.  How I really am. These conventions that we hold dear,
all the inane, insane, insincere, infantile intimations we say...

… really don’t mean a thing.  Nothing.

They are empty words -
OK.
Fine.

And I am still tired.

I’d curl up and lay my head down
and try to shut my eyes.
But I am so tired
I can't even find the ground when I fall down.

The Best of Me

I know I'm not the man I used to be,
but I think what's left is the best of me.
What you see here, standing right before you,
has been tested and tempered and found true.

Gone, the illusions of a wasted youth
replaced by an understanding that truth
is a malleable and living thing
that changes with every catch that chance brings.

I no longer tilt at every windmill
or try to cure the world of every ill.
Now I chose each battle and when I'll fight
for all those things my heart tells me are right.

No longer am I a wandering boy
turning over stones to try and find joy.
Now instead I am a confident man,
making his world the very best he can.

The Name of Eve

I find it very hard to believe
that all this sin is the fault of Eve.
Plagues and pestilence and death and war -
should these really be laid at her door?


So when we lie and cheat and decieve
why is Eve the one that should recieve
the scorn and hate and all of the blame
for what is really our deepest shame?


Isn't it time that we moved beyond
all the hate that this fable has spawned?
Shouldn't we make an effort to relieve
the stain we've placed on the name of Eve?

The Moments

The moments between the minutes are the hardest.

Those silences between the seconds where the clock doesn't tick,

those are the times when doubt whispers to me.

Those thoughts that thwart my serenity

inhabit the instants between supposing and surety

that fill every random corner of my brain.

Doubt is always standing right behind me,

mumbling maledictions, murmurring madness that

serve to disquiet any moment of delight 

I might try to take from this life.

The Cherry Blossoms

In the back yard there's an old cherry tree.
Its trunk is cracked and some branches withered
and when you look it is easy to see
every storm and winter it has weathered.

In years gone by it would fill with flowers,
bright white blossoms that weighed its branches down.
When the blooms fell from those leafy towers
they'd cover the ground like some young bride's gown.

But now the tree fights to wake from the cold,
each bud that blooms taking longer to grow.
Every spring not as fruitful or as bold
but still the tree tries to put on its show.

There's an old cherry tree in our back yard
that flowers even when its life is hard.