It's 2 a.m. again
I force my eyes to shut
They open
I yawn
And though my mouth expresses it
My eyes refuse
I scorn
The idea of mindful rest as if borderline abuse
And though my body feels exhaustion
My mind runs free
It won't reach satisfaction
The rhymes begin their plea
If I could keep them all together
These thoughts, keep them from running their course
Bundle them tightly until morning
Will they show me some remorse?
Will they stay in the right order
Or be forgotten completely?
Will creativity be cut shorter
A black abyss hungry and empty?
They'll be gone by dawn no doubt
The slate blank, crystal clear
They'll be non-existent as the silent shout
A felled tree with no one around to hear
It's 2 a.m. again
I close my eyes
I'll compose them tomorrow
I believe my brain's lies
About the Creator
Abbey Streett
Life spoken through poetry.
Everything hurts
and nothing is free.
Currently a stay at home mama to two wonderful, crazy kiddos. Finding my voice through poetry, and desperately finding time to read and write.
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One Minute to Noon
“OK, guys!” I screech over the macaw-like chatter in my sophomore English class. My students are sharing mementos they accumulated during summer vacation. The assignment is to interview each other and write an expository essay about another student’s treasure: Misty’s coquina shells and sand dollars from Florida, Ruth’s two Navajo pottery mugs from New Mexico, Roxy’s perfume from Paris, Kevin’s chocolate from Hershey Pennsylvania, a picador’s sword from a bullfight in San Fermin Spain, where one of my favorite students, Manny Pérez, ran with the bulls at festival.
By Lacy Loar-Gruenler4 days ago in Fiction
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