I read pretty words, even ugly ones that are pretty to me. Originality is like wine to me. Then I hear my own words. I’m tired. I’m tired of other people’s gifts better than my own.
I’m tired of money eluding me. Hardly making it, on my own no less. What if I am cursed? And why are others so blessed?
I go to church. I know I am blessed. And guilty for having dark thoughts against those who seem to swim through life better than the rest of us. Like they are better than the rest of us.
I’m tired of ignorance to others pain. I’m tired of my own earthly desires. I always assumed I’d get there someday.
Now I assume I won’t beat some of my demons. I guess that’s ok. I’m too tired to care about youthful wishes.
You living your dream?
You with the man of your heart?
I don’t really mean it. I’m just tired. And I’m blessed.