by A.H. I don’t know who A.H. is, but I love this poem.
Lord, I am tired of
things being hard. They say
that only the good die
young, but I’m
still here.
And I wonder why I’ve never been
good enough for you
to take early,
Lord,
and God I am
tired of being
here when all
the lights are
out.
If I were to go
by my own hand
and spill my blood
in the war under
this skin of
mine
then I’d be no good
for you at all,
Lord,
and I am tired of things being
rough.
I am tired
of these same six prayers
of the waking breaths and
the half-dying and
all the things
in between,
all the never-living and
the never-born
that no-one mourns.
Lord, I am tired of things
being hard,
and I am tired
of the darkness,
and this person who ghosts
above these
bones of mine
is a stranger, Lord,
and I’d cast them out
if I thought you’d care.
This soul of mine is
a wasteland, Lord;
heap earth
and dust upon it
so that men may mourn for
me and all the
things I never
had.
These bones of mine are
a house, Lord;
I built a home
beneath flesh and bone
and walled myself up
in my skeleton
and prayed through my
teeth.
This skin of mine is
battle-scarred, Lord;
I can tell where I’ve
been from the
lines by my eyes
and the space
around my little
self;
but you haven’t found me,
Lord, and God knows
I have searched
myself.
Lord, I am tired of
things being hard.
Lord, I am tired of
things being hard.
astepclosertoperfection 