My head is an empty house, echoing.

The windows are vast, but nothing gets in

The sun shines on the dust motes,

Illuminating nothingness.

Each morning, I put on a smile.

It feels heavy and artificial,

Like a mask I’m forced to wear.

I laugh and nod at the right times, 

Blending in with the scenery.

The world moves on around me,

A blur of color and sound. 

But I am a ghost,

Moving through rooms and conversations.

My body is here, but the rest of me is elsewhere,

Lost in a quiet storm. 

I am tired of being tired.

Tired of the constant, aching weight.

The simplest things are immense,

Like climbing a mountain on my knees.

The climb never ends.

I remember a time when the world was bright,

When joy was not a stranger.

Now, I watch the memory fade 

And wonder if it was a dream.

There is no rain, no fire,

Just a silent, endless grey.

A constant fall without a bottom.

And though I fall, I stand,

Trapped between a scream and silence.