It’s 3 a.m.
I can’t bare the idea of going
To bed early anymore.
I simply must be way too tired
To think, or feel, or deplore.
I’m sleepy and my head is spinning,
Around and around and around again,
Yet the words still find their way to my head,
Even though it’s 3 a.m.
The past and the future
Are made of memories and fears.
Nostalgia is a liar,
But your memories are real.
The good ones, the bad ones
And the ones you simply abhor;
The ones that find their way to you
Albeit you want to think of them no more.
And these are the ones that creep up on you
When you attempt to call it a night.
‘Haha!’ They laugh and ridicule me
As sleep puts up its fight.
But the future, oh, the future,
And the fear that it brings to
Is crippling and unbounded;
And together, they consume you.