poetry not prose will get me here
there is the only way through the gate
and who am i to complain of this dryiness
and of this weariness
and who am i to weep at not crossing over
through tiredness
and who am i to complain of this life i'm given
yet in truth
i do
and who am i who has been given much
to be dry and tired the evil i've been given
or full of dread and disappointment
at what has turned out to be living
or still sitting here weeping,
waiting for my true love
pep talks and talks
and chatter do not matter
to make me what i'm not
and what i am right now is tired
and who am i to be so tired
to turn all weary
from your cross and yet
i do