If a demon wrote a poem,
It'd be like the words she speaks,
When it's hard to sleep,
And she's restless.
A natural phenomenon.
Its late,
3am.
The only times she says how she truly feels.
The only time she doesn't measure her words before she speaks.
Her words leave her mouth in a cloud of smoke.
So thick with sleep and hurt.
Its incomprehensible.
At 3am she channels her pain.
In stanzas of lies that are her truths.
Because that's how it is with art.
Sometimes is raw and blunt,
And stares you straight in the eyes,
And dare you to say it isn't real...
Sometimes the truth hides behind the colors,
Behind the endless coats of yellows and warm hues.
Scratch at her surface.
Until you reach the melancholy shades of blue.
How you feel about what you find...
Is based on your state of mind.
Do you feel like she feels?
Have you ever seen the things she sees,
At 3am, 4am.
Finally closing your eyes to sleep at 5am.
Another involuntary night shift.
This is not about death and pain and heartache.
Or heartbreak and medication.
This one's about the restless.
The insomniacs who feel through words.
And send messages on moonshine to their lovers.
This one is about how only the moon has truly bore witness.
To the phenomenon of 3am.
On the tormented,
Sleepless mind
Of a person who is cursed to write.
•••
A/N
ugh like have you ever tried ignoring the urge to write, like gotdamn, it's like pulling out your own teeth. Sometimes it feels like a curse fr.
•••