Shameful Tired

 

What about something happy

����������� Worth laughing about?

Constant miseries file away at my face

����������� I can�t smile

Or even hint a toothless grin.

����������� I am-again-mourning a melancholy

that selfishly sits in me.

 

I am not so sad as I say.

Busy, so hardly a second for It

����������� or myself to feel

Dedication to the books and pens

Pencils are to jab and tear at skin.

 

Ah.

Sighing is, much too uncommon here.

�Weary me�

Should be a shout or a whisper

But I am

So

Tired.

 

11 May 2004