Days of Tired

My brain stings
bound up in the back of my skull.
Friends have turned away from me,
yet still plague the airwaves
with cries for help and money.
Family is a shadow,
and is overshadowed my others
whom my own look down on,
but are worth more individually
than they are together with the pets.
The stronger ones I cling to,
looking for sense,
direction,
a hint that the tiny family I am trying for
will not falter and wither away,
blown as dust bunnies and tumble weeds
across the uncaring street.

I worry for tomorrow,
not just for what I shall do,
but for what will become of the future I plan for.
No funds, little food, two sick in different ways,
and this before I am crowned with the full moon
quick on the heels on the first crescent.

I cannot take care of the world.
I cannot accomplish what I set out to do.
I have tried to not care about all the details,
like whether they have eaten or had a good night,
I just take their work, scrutinize it,
and then break their little hearts.
I am not a mother to pay his way or
bum three or seven smokes every night;
my bedroom is no coffee shop.

So I linger awhile.
Toy with the idea of running away to see Elvis
glowing up on stage,
then coming down to take it more seriously.
I would love to drive away and take care of me
and be nothing but selfish.
But I know that would not make happiness grow;
I know that the desert moon would grow cold
and the silence more unbearable.
I love my man, my families, my life.

I am so sorry that I cannot uproot my life for you,
but it’s only because I think I finally made it Home.