Tiredness (A Free-verse Poem)

The metaphor for tiredness

I am tired for so long, with nobody to alleviate my pain, and the burdens of all my mistakes. I stay into a mental gauge, unfree to decide on my own of what is to be made of me. I see enemies and wrecked soul all along the way, where they stay into a darkness, filled of morbid thoughts. I hate you for imprisoning me, and taking the steer of my own ship. I hate you for what you are, and I hate myself more - to not be able to extend my wrath over you. I am tired of all this shit and brokenness, and I want to go sleep into my own bed - A bed made by me, under its wondrous eye. I am tired of all of you and of your wickedness. This game, doesn’t please me anymore . . . You, getting everything, and me, nothing . . . You, the parasite that feeds on me . . . You, that hide me from all good eyes . . . You, that keep taking everything from me. You think I don’t see you! You think I don’t hear you, and you seem to forget what I am. Hence, I am tired, for you’ve taken too much. And now my bones, they are all dried up.

Oh. Wait. What I see there. Isn’t it the gigantic woad-tattooed beast. All bare naked. The companion of vivacity. It is always breaking in. Not to take. But to give. Only to me. As it always says. Vivacity. Strength. Self-love. Self-confidence. It feeds me. Of hatred for all. Of disastrous stories. Of the ones it devours. For it to grow. To love only me. To love only its shadows. Of life. Of aliveness.

I was tired for so long, then it came my way. Breaking barriers and oceans. Stirring my emotions relentlessly. A booster, to feed my appetite of raw meats and blood slicking out. While it goes out hunting, I sleep and make good dreams; I rest onto our hidden Eden. Then, between dawn and dust I am fed with the strength of wicked things. Where it sings horrific lullabies to my ears of the humongous deeds it inflicts to the wicked. It whispers into my ears to keep these as livestock for us to feed on. For its appetite is bold and time is long living all alone. I used to be always tired for such a long time. I was too soft and too cool; Too good and too forgiving. So I made a business deal, of course, with the beautiful beast. For it to feast on those emotions that tie me up, and of all things that feed on my deeds.

And how do I pay back, shall you say Well, I lay into its strong arms - Its love for me is ferocious, you know It can bleed you to death If ever you make me cry, Thus, I listen silently to all the news of horrors And it rocks me till I sleep, with its whispers of death. I used to be always so tired For too long, way too long Now, I have a shoulder to lean on One, that take care of me, without taking.

Lately, I’ve been very tired, and I do think that I am really fed up of all of this. So, this is a metaphor for the subject of being tired itself. I find tiredness as being a parasitic thing that sucks all of my energies; feeding on me and gaining all the strength needed to continue growing. And like all these horror movies that I like watching, I see it, as being the enemy that alleviates all my hope and dreams, and somewhere within this negative aspect of living life extensively, something else sprouts out of this body and mind condition. Thus the second part of this free-verse poem, is a metaphoric allusion to the contrary of tiredness, which is vivacity, powerful energies, and raw blood (it’s just that I’ve got some Iron Manganese Copper (😂😂it’s so beurky-beurky-beurk, I don’t understand the vampires… dude, blood is not tasty attt alllll) when I went to the doctor during my recent anaemic condition, and as the good fictionnair that I am, I had to invent some untypical kind of imagery).

I imagined some kind of powerful mythical creature, exactly, one that has a tribal tattoo on the middle of its forehead, that goes into a battle against tiredness, feed me of the energies of the enemies, and giving me back my vivacity, which brings balance to my energy and helps at my rehabilitation.

So, as you all can see, with high doses of nonsense, pints of metaphors, mythology, and all the rest, this poem took shape.

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