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Poems at Two a.m. MAG
Have you ever woken up with a poem
inside of you?
God, it’s painful.
While strings of words and phrases pile up
in your head, you lie there, chest aching,
until ink begins to spill across paper,
everything in that week, month, year,
that you’ve thought or felt.
Two a.m. poems are the most beautiful kind.
They’re always the most sincere, not rotted and spoiled with in-genuine strings of flowery phrases and neat descriptions, ruining the
messy character of the poet’s mind.
These kinds of poems are like conversations
with an old friend, they taste like the places they were written, like the skies tinging with soft colors of pinks and oranges, of inky blue and sunshine and dust and cluttered desks
and overflowing book shelves.
Have you ever woken up with a poem inside you?
I have.
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