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 If tiresome has a name

….that is me.

Tired of listening to the news

that doesn’t make any sense.

Talking loud, saying nothing,

repeating itself like it’s afraid of silence.

Tired of making fun of my own feed,

scrolling like a clown

in a circus I never bought tickets for.

Tired of changing tires

of my own mind.

It keeps running without control.

When I press the brake,

it doesn’t stop.

It parks

right where addiction lives.

Headache music,

louder than holy chanting,

buzzing in my skull.

I put my phone away,

but the chant walks in on its own.

Same tune.

Different mouth.

Algorithm knows my weakness.

I search once,

it follows me everywhere

like a stray thought.

Last night I searched for a bag of gold.

It was never mine.

Now experts keep teaching me

how to lose money professionally.

Gold apps.

Rich words.

Empty pockets.

Sometimes I think

I don’t have patience.

Sometimes I think

I’ve had too much of it.

I close my eyes.

Nothing closes.

Images run.

Memories chase.

No finish line.

You live with it.

Work like a donkey.

Smile.

Miss one step

and someone’s already pointing.

“It’s alright,”

I tell myself.

But comfort never arrives

like a celebration.

It comes quietly,

late,

if at all.

I am tired.

Not sleepy.

Not bored.

Tired.

I don’t need motivation.

I don’t need advice.

I need a long vacation

from noise,

from knowing,

from being switched on all the time.

If tiresome has a name—

you already know it.