by Brandi Mcg
It's surely tiring,
knowing you're expiring.
When you see the young children play,
yet those are no longer your days.
When you see the wind whipping through the trees,
but society would never allow you to be that free.
When the world continues in it's ceaseless chatter,
but you feel only silence matters.
It sure is tiring, that much I know,
when you're stuck in this boring flow.
It sure is tiring, this I know,
when you miss the seeds you haven't sown.
When you miss being wild and free,
or being alone, among the trees.
When you miss an eternity of soothing quiet,
or softly smiling in a room of soft violet.
Yes, it sure is tiring,
so says my soul,
but I'm already weary and expiring,
just born but going cold.