Burnout

There is a fatigue in the corners,  

a heaviness folding mornings into dust.  

Reality feels like a shadow's echo—  

close enough to see, but never touch.  

We build towers out of expectation,  

call them dreams, call them worth.  

Yet the scaffolding buckles with missteps,  

concrete promises crumbling to sand.  

You try to press forward,  

keep finding ladders to nowhere.  

Each step feels slower than forgetting,  

each breath tight as a clenched fist.  

The world whispers, "be more,"  

but you are already unraveling,  

threads slipping between trembling fingers,  

a tapestry too thin to hold.  

Exhaustion speaks in half-sentences,  

filling pauses with unfinished sighs.  

When did standing still become a rebellion,  

when did silence feel this loud?  

Even the sky seems smaller today,  

pressing down with its dim, unyielding weight.  

Reality, constant in its quiet refusal,  

of everything you thought it might be.