I'm tired.

As I browse through pictures,
I turn so jealous, so discouraged at what my peers do.
I haven't been handed,
a thing in my past, while others just coast on through.
And here I am, grasping,
my early years yet - already a figment of peoples' past.
But a word for my father,
who has taken things harder. I know this is nothing but me.
Shake my head, blink,
squint; dig fingers in, buried - until this soreness is rid.
And here is the thesis:
the reason I write. It feels like steering into a skid.

I Can Wish All You Want

There's a partition in the mind which grows amidst the static,
caused from over-exposure to our own thoughts and habits -
the culmination of being alive in these times,
so perfectly aligned with what we "want" and "what's right".
This pokes me awake, right at the edge of sleep,
where I wonder where you are and if you're awake,
do you think of me too? I know you cared once...
and once is enough to ingrain.
I know this is foolish, this wishing game.
We all grew up knowing our lives would just change,
mold, and grow old into wrinkles then dust -
even metal rusts.

But metal we're not.
We're broken and battered from this norm we all breathe,
shaky slip-steps up the stairs to the grave,
oh there's no reason to lie when your time wastes away - - ->

They say you can't feel,
after a certain amount of love.
They say you can't love,
like you loved your first one.
They made you believe you're one of a kind.
But you're not. Sorry. You're not.

In this cryptic place, there's hope in my state -
I know I'm still young and I'm not going away.
And I have plenty of love, for the one(s) I will meet or have met,
knowing til death -
my hope
won't let
me quit.

The cynic now sleeps,
pulls up the sheets,
up to her nose - she's uncovered her feet...
she shivers; it's cold for a heart.

It's cold for a heart with no heat.