I am weary.

I am weary of being weary.

I am weary of the blood.

I am weary of the rain.

I am weary of when the rain falls it harkens to my blood- the blood in me that’s made of the water that someone cried centuries ago for the same men.

The same powers. / The same people being recycled.

Old. Boring. Dead ideas being born in new bodies that only value what they can take.

I am weary. I am weary…

I am weary of crying myself to sleep because I don’t know what I can do to help.

I am tired of being poor. Poor in resources. Poor in reach. Poor in volume and small in scope.

I am weary of those loud and wealthy WASTING their reach. Their scope. Their voice.

I love being a woman and yet I feel this body carries a tiredness that is older than the water I am crying.

I am running out of words.

I am running out of air.

I think the only thing that makes sense anymore is that I know I am not the only one wearing the weary road as we dream into the future.

Being hopeful- it feels like- is a revolution- and I am weary of having to defend my hope.

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