When the World Feels Heavy

When the World Feels Heavy

Some days arrive like weathered stone,

too full of gray to call my own.

My heart grows tired, my breath runs thin,

and even morning feels worn within.

I carry hours like a weight,

each small hurt made to feel too great.

Still, somewhere under all this ache,

a faint small line begins to wake.

Not joy, not light, not something grand—

just one warm moment, one held hand,

one reason, fragile, soft, and slight,

to let me stay until the morning light.