it’s been a slow growing weed. sneaky, ambitious. meticulously tearing me down for 50 years. this time. the roller coaster tracks ran out. and there i stood, panicked, holding back the flood gates and the little dark voice telling me to jump. to stop.
say it. say it out loud. write it. tell it. and its power fades a little.
i’ve been tired for 50 years. in and out of love, in and out of pain, managing to squeeze some life in in between.
i see no future, but i’m holding on like hell to today.