Tired

Tired
By Ben Scheele


I move along peacefully, following my life's purpose.
I grasp the object that my life, and hers, depends upon.
As the miles slowly roll by, I become more tired,
and grow weary as I feel the world pressing down on me.
I exhale, and my bounciness flows away from me.
As my back sags, I sense a fever brewing inside.
My balding head becomes molten like magma,
and my steps become wobbly; I can't walk straight.
My eyes are filled with a smoky haze, and I lose all hope.
I stop by the side of the road, and flop on the ground.
I've carried this wheel so far, but I will soon be replaced.



This is a very quickly written poem, although it's been forming slowly in my mind ever since I watched that woman's tire go flat and just about fall off as she drove by me the other day. It was fascinating, and a little scary, since I had just had that same tire on my car patched a couple days before that. That could have been me. Even though I wrote it quickly, I don't see anything wrong with it. It's more about the idea than about polish, and I think that came through pretty clearly here. What did you think? Kind of fun, huh?