You ever just been tired of breathing
Tired of the methodical monotonous motion of making your lungs work to keep you alive
Tired of drawing icy air in through one opening and out the other
They asked me if I was okay and I said yes
It's a half truth at its core
I'm fine when others distract me from feeling like a lump of clay
Soft, gray, unfinished, unpolished
But when nighttime hits, I lose myself
Recede into a shell of my own making
I don't want to die but I feel like I'm not living.
School, home, school, home, tutorials, home again. Weekends. Home.
They ask me how I feel, I say fine. But if anything I'm tired. I'm bored of breathing.
To live is an adventure, but this is s chore.
