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



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 !!

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..


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


The assassins had done their job

It begs the question

How many of us

How much part of our self

is a forgotten poem?