Forgotten poem
3:30 am,
I don’t talk much of it
But know this
You will never find me awake at
3:30 am
My conscious brain cannot fathom
The existence of such
a dark world
It’s like a forgotten poem
That seeped into my mind well before
3:30 am
It had painful things to say
Confessions to make
You know like how it rains
sometimes dead in the night
And the thunder isn’t a majestic thunder
Rather a thunder of frustration
And the drops whip the outer part
Of your air conditioner
As if showing remorse
Regret
Sorrow
Just like a woeful man
Jabbing at his pillow
Before 3:30 am
Somewhere along these lines
was what it wanted to convey
Before 3:30 am
It wouldn’t let me sleep, ‘twas as if
Assassins were on its pursuit
They didn’t want the painful truth to be let out
They wanted not the dethronement of the
Kingdom of happiness
The serotonin castle
Was under threat as
A whistleblower had escaped their clutches
The poem didn’t have much time
I woke up in the dark
Scratched down an outline
A gist of what it was telling me
Faster
Faster !!
I couldn’t see the pen or the paper nor my writing
But I wrote, I wrote like a madman
Who was running from assassins;
Sent by..
It was 3:30 am
Sleep encircled us all
Quick where’s the paper!
I thought to myself over the sounds
Of the tiny birds
It was in my hands now
I could see..
Nothing
The pen left marks but no ink
to make them feel welcomed
in the papery terrain
I recalled to my head
I pulled at my hairs
Nothing
The assassins had done their job
It begs the question
How many of us
How much part of our self
is a forgotten poem?