Tired

I don’t read books,

Because I like the way the words sound.

I don’t write poems,

Because I like to hear my voice.

I don’t play video games,

Because I want my brain to rot.

I don’t do these as a hobby,

And certainly not because they’re a talent.

I do it,

Because I have to.

Because I need an escape.

Because I need to find a story,

Or make one,

That’s anything but mine.

Because I need to be,

For however short it may be,

Anyone but me.

I need-

Someone else’s story,

Someone else’s problems,

Someone else’s life.

Because I’m tired of mine.

I don’t stay up-

Until two in the morning-

Doing these things,

Because I don’t like sleeping.

Or because I particularly enjoy them.
Or even because I want to.

I do it,

Because when I go to bed,

I know I have to wake up again.

And then,

It’s back to my story,

My problems,

And My life.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Wherever you go, there you are.

[Falcon1]

My Brother say video games are mindless fun and he hangs around d them on the week ends and misses family time and other mindless things he should be doing with this time.

[barleygirl]

This is brilliantly simple. I love the way you use a repeated litany of explanations, showing one thing by giving us a dozen different views of it. Overall, I so agree with this. You are describing my life. Being in constant all-over pain (fibromyalgia), everything I do is to escape my true existence. I know many people live like that & you've nailed how it is, perfectly. Even tho there's an underlying message of desperation here, it's also an inspiration to others, to read about how we can turn a tragedy into something worthwhile . . . thanks for RR'ing me . . . (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie