I made it to the end—barely.

Going, going, and then falling asleep sitting up. I'm too busy. I make myself this way sometimes, but other times, it is from simple daily life with children, work, aspirations, and every other good thing.

I am tired. I've read slices about being tired or exhausted, and I have to tell you that things don't really get easier. Things just change to be what we've wanted all along.

I've imagined myself sleeping even, and I find myself wishing I had one more week until poetry month. I wish that extra time could be real.