I was not made for long, muggy days.
Everywhere I look people are weary and worn.
Is it the weather?
Or is it the world?
Sometimes its as if the clouds themselves are mourning.
The rains come-
and they weep, they weep, they weep.
Today however, they don’t mourn.
They just hang sluggishly in the sky.
“What is your purpose?” I ask them.
I ask myself the same thing.
In a world brimming with so much heartache,
and so much difficulty,
a person has to tread hard just to keep their
head above the waves.
Where do we find the strength to help the
person struggling beside us?
Today, I couldn’t help them if I tried.
I’m inert. I’m incapable. I’m spent.
Who ever thought waking up could feel like dying?
poems.
