The rent is the part I keep going back to, tomorrow coming round to knock and collect it for your existence. To me it turned every morning into a bill at the door, and the bit about getting out of bed made more sense after that. The rusted machine carried only because it still works did the same. I read it twice, right down to the one more night.
Too Tired to Live
Thought
Thought
The rent is the part I keep going back to, tomorrow coming round to knock and collect it for your existence. To me it turned every morning into a bill at the door, and the bit about getting out of bed made more sense after that. The rusted machine carried
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Too Tired to Live
I am too tired to live,
but not tired enough to disappear.
And perhaps that is the punishment:
to keep breathing
when the soul has already begged for silence.
I carry my days like a labourer
carries a rusted machine —
without pride, without hope,
simply because it still works.
There are mornings when getting out of bed
feels like a betrayal of my own body.
The world demands haste,
when everything inside me
only longs for rest.
I do not want to die.
I simply want this pain
to stop demanding so much from me.
I want a night without thoughts,
a room where the heart makes no noise,
a little peace before tomorrow
comes knocking again
to collect the rent for my existence.
Perhaps living is this:
not defeating the darkness,
but sitting inside it
and waiting for some small light
to have forgotten to abandon us.
So tonight, I do not promise happiness.
I promise only to stay.
One more night.
One more breath.
One more small act of resistance
against everything
that tried to convince me
that I was already lost.
Thoughts
-
The rent is the part I keep going back to, tomorrow coming round to knock and collect it for your existence. To me it turned every morning into a bill at the door, and the bit about getting out of bed made more sense after that. The rusted machine carried only because it still works did the same. I read it twice, right down to the one more night.
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Too Tired to Live