2am,
shaking under my blankets, choked up by sobs.
usually accompanied by lifeless stares up the ceiling, or down at the ground. (mostly at the ground, looking up somehow transformed into an arduous task)
3am,
like clockwork, peeking out the suffocating fort to breathe, but quick, and only once, you wouldn't dare to disrupt your roommates.
4am,
that's when the tears had died down (with your emotions),
nothing matters and your breaths became less and less tangible-
it makes your heart beat louder,
how else are you supposed to know that living is something you experience when odds are pointing against it?
4:37am,
at last,
the puddle began to dry, and finally
the moon bids you goodnight.
YOU ARE READING
young.
Poetryaren't we the lucky ones? we get to feel dead when we're supposed to be living. a collection of scrap paper rambles when i was younger.
