From a Dead Poet

Tired

Of all things felt remaining,

Tired is what I feel most.

This thing called love is a parasite,

That's completely drained its host.

I do not feel the pain now,

I do not feel regret,

All I feel is a weariness,

It beckons me to bed.

My palace, my kingdom, my fortress,

This damned place where I lay,

it's feels more like a prison,

where i'm forced to think all day.

Even when I close my eyes, her face is all i see

The curve of her smile, the pink of her lips,

I know she's loathing me.

It's keeping me up, killing my sleep,

I don't know what to do,

Dreams, Rather, Nightmares of her loving me,

I know they will never come true.

Of all the things i did to you,

I regret most, the things that I said,

But I'll always be here if you need me,

I'll probably just be in bed.

Thinking of plots and plans and more,

to get you to finally see,

maybe, just maybe I'm over you, 

Or Maybe, you're just over me.

Well, im sure that by now you've lost interest

At least you'll know you're admired,

if you need me, ill be awake, stuck thinking of you,

My love, good god, I'm Tired