They
It is the kind of tired that doesn’t sleep.
It is the kind of hungry that doesn’t eat.
It is the kind of breathing that leaves you breathless.
It is the kind of numb that slices through the skin.
It is a deafening roar in the quiet.
It is overwhelming sadness.
They come slowly, like the sound of a helicopter in the distance, easy to ignore.
Then they come in waves, until the helicopter is on the ground in front of you, assaulting you with the wind from its blades.
There you crouch and cover and try to protect yourself. There you are powerless, too in awe to move away.
There they get to you. The things they say, they stick.
It has always been. It will always be.
Damaged goods, the truth always tells.
Put up your fronts, be even happy for a minute or two in this desperate life.
We all know the actuality.
We all know the eventuality.
Every time, just for a second, you forget, we’ll be right here, like helicopters in the distance.
You can’t tell, you can’t explain. They laugh like we said they would.
It’s so simple, take a pill to forget, get more sleep.
Just cheer up already before you become completely unbearable.
It’s your responsibility to be liked, the clown at the show.
You have to work and earn their attention; you have to fight to be seen as worthy.
And one day when you finally get tired of fighting, we’ll be right here, like we always have been.
