I wake up tired in a way that sleep can’t fix,
like my bones are made of broken bricks.
Every breath feels heavy, thick as tar,
like I’ve been dragging this same damn war too far.
People say fight harder,
like rage is something you can manufacture.
Like willpower grows on trees,
like grief and trauma don’t fracture.
But I’ve been swinging for years with blood in my mouth,
north, east, west, south.
Every direction another damn wall,
another memory whispering fall… just fucking fall.
I’m tired of clawing at the dirt for air,
tired of pretending I’m some warrior standing there.
Truth is I’m bruised down to the marrow and bone,
fighting battles that were never mine alone.
And some nights the quiet sounds sweet as sin,
a voice in my skull saying just give in.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just calm and slow,
like a river saying let the current go.
Because giving up?
Fuck… sometimes it feels clean.
No more screaming at ghosts nobody’s seen.
No more carrying pain like a rusted blade,
no more acting brave in the mess they made.
People love hope when it’s shiny and loud,
but they vanish quick when the dark gets proud.
When the mask cracks open and the truth spills out,
when survival turns into a desperate shout.
And I’m not saying I’m gone,
not saying I’m through,
but the fire that once roared now flickers like glue
holding together a heart patched thin,
whispering I just don’t have the fight within.
I used to rage like thunder splitting the sky,
now some days I just wonder why.
Why keep punching a storm that won’t break apart?
Why keep duct-taping hope to a shredded heart?
Because damn… I’m tired.
Soul-deep fucking tired.
Like the last match in a hurricane
still trying to stay inspired.
So if you see me quiet,
if I don’t roar like before,
it’s not weakness knocking at my door.
It’s the truth standing there,
bloody, ragged, and sore:
I’ve fought so damn long
I don’t know what I’m fighting for.