Tired of being a poet,
I want to be a poem.
Be someone’s prized possession,
An object of affection,
Not an artist, but a muse.
To be immortalized through someone else’s eyes,
For once I want to be the prize.
Tired of being a thinker,
For once, I want to be the thought.
To not think and reflect,
Ponder and brood,
Just flit carelessly through a brain,
Maybe get lost down the shower drain.
Tired of being a lover,
Now I just want to be loved.
No long nights and days
Spent in someone else’s name,
I want to rid myself of emotion,
Numbly go through life’s motions.
Tired of living fully,
For once I just want to exist,
To not swim or sink,
But float effortlessly
Through space and time, you see,
I’m tired of survival,
I’m afraid of death,
Yet somehow I’m always out of breath.
Image courtesy: The Whim of Time by Melinda Cootsona