Poem: I Know You’re Tired

Image concept by Sophie with original sitting girl image by Sasin Tipchai and cloud image by Patou Ricard both from Pixabay

Sophie conveys existence’s anguish and strain

I know you’re tired
of the self-centred qualities, that will me
to spew lies, my
– diffident apologies

But what else is there to do
when chance of revival is obsolete
past delight out of sight, fulfilment of
– potential incomplete

Sweet, glowing comfort once fluttered
through your heart at my call; it soured
a cruel, bitter disgust that slows it’s
– beat to a stall

My dangerous affliction, fuelled
by addiction, forced you
into your mind, existence
– solely based on fiction

And it was in that paralysed paradise
cultivated from ideals, that you were trapped
in a prison of narcissism –
– apathetic to the real

Internally existing, divided
from your corporeal self, invited inheritance
of that egocentric trait that separates
– from all else

And all that keeps you from what
would be a voluntary demise, is craving
for controlled the unconscious, your
– heaven from the skies

Yet when access to this compelling state
of non-entity, is denied by your head
keeping you awake, its frivolous attempt
– to seek activity

Your idle mind automatically
rejects its own desires
you’re put on autopilot, only
– accomplishing what’s required

Like a zombie risen from
the soil and the moss, a desultory life
of solitude, vision clouded,
– spirits lost

Enthusiasm is futile.
Empathy not worthwhile,
when living a false life in a
– self-inflicted exile

And as I gaze upon you repeating
a never-ending menial routine, I see myself
reflected, you’re becoming
– what I’ve been

Everyday necessities
are Sisyphus’ rock, a reality
pitiful enough for the dead and
– buried to mock

But the snarls of those
taunting creatures of the night remain
trivial as all they feel
– for you is spite

For when consciousness keeps them captive,
reliving existence’s anguish and strain,
you’re dead in this world, existing in bliss
– on an alternate plain

Avidly anticipating twilight to
continue your nocturnal escapade,
a devastating sight for he who
– should have made

The living a place of minimal
betrayal and no hurts, but my mind
of straw seems to cause
– the converse

And as my clock slowly runs
out of ticks, I can see clearer
the torture my
– being here inflicts

I’ll take just one more swig,
swallowing guilt with what made me guilty
After all a shot of Glens
– pairs nicely with self-pity

In partnership with Write by You, a social enterprise supporting young female writers to develop their creativity, confidence and writing skills.