for all that you lived for, you now cannot live up to

" Sick and Tired, Again "
by Siesta Lingo
[ started yesterday ]

Sick sick sick sick sick sick sick sick
Sick sick sick sick sick sick sick
I'm sick sick sick sick sick of being the one who
can never let loose, who can never have fun .
I'm sick sick sick sick sick of not achieving that
elation I have for the longest time needed .
Frustration ! Due to long-awaited negation .
I know I know I know the great aggravation
you feel when anger goes beyond agitation .
I'm tired of rhyming, I'm tired of trying,
I'm tired of not being able to fight it .
It's wrying ! The lying, the crying, the dying
that happens inside when each purpose is vying
another . I'm done searching for underlying
enlightenment, done hoping for revelation .
For now I know hope is insatiable weakness,
that lives eating your soul for lunch on the weekends .
It thrives by consuming your heart's inner thinkings,
and lets you down by undermining your speakings .
It's drinking and drinking, salvation is shrinking,
the shore is afar and your ship slowly sinking .
It's weakening, knowing survival is looking
slim, doubtful, not the slightest bit reassuring .
Impossible, doubtable, simply improba-
ble, doubting yourself, second-guessing your options .
There's nothing . You doubt there will ever be any-
thing, wondering how many times you can dwell on
your failure, and quadruplication of doubt, and
you're trailing behind since you kicked yourself out of
your mind . And your senses, according to census,
are guilty as charged, of asserting the senseless .
Commenceless, I struggle for might, but it's endless .
The finish is taunting you off in the distance .
It's whispering, wisping, suspiciously listen-
ing, this loss you feel that descends you to grievance .
You're constantly changing your point-of-view, waiting .
With bated breath, someone's awaiting your babies .
A shift in the context, you're feeling inflamed, then
degraded, as if you've lost all animation .
A drift in the contest, forgetting your name is
a pity, and ready to say something witty,
it hits you . And you only wish you could give up .
For all that you lived for, you now cannot live up
to . Ready ? Yes, it has to finish already .
My strength is depleting, ideas defeating
my last designation of lost concentration .
I'm done . And exhausted at that, wanting desper-
ately to fall asleep, to succumb to dreams, and
to relax dormantly, befriend my subconscious .
I'm sick !