Two am sleep habits are tough to break
"I'll go to bed early" I say
Yet here I am
Awake
The witching hour has yet to come
And I'll never wake up before the sun.

He picked up the glass,
Right up to his lips,
He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth,
As he took consecutive short sips.
He put down the glass,
And sank down in his chair,
As he contemplated his thoughts,
Of every wound, every tear.
He looked through the glass,
And saw his reflection on one side,
But why did he have to see himself this way?
As he put his head down and cried.
He drank his sorrows away,
And emptied the glass soon enough,
He couldn't bear drinking alone,
When the times do get rough.

Her name is Ava,
An autistic girl who just needs love,
A beautiful angel sent to us,
From almighty God, up above.
She's in her own little world,
That is far from here,
What she doesn't know is that she's loved,
An innocent girl who lives in fear.
She may be aggressive at times,
Disobey the rules and cry,
But she can't help her actions,
We can only hope and try.
I can empathize with her,
I can cry like her as well,
But I will never see the world through Ava's eyes,
A girl with much to tell. :)

Three am sadness,
This is new
I'm not usually up past two
My eyes are swollen
Tears betray me
Tossing and turning
My eyes are burning
And while I might not seem broken
I leave plenty of things unspoken
All my ghosts have come out to play
Haunting, teasing, taunting me today.

You waved the tool in my face
Causing a switch to go off in my brain
My thoughts distorted
My body springing to action
Trying to make you stop
What you had already done

The new raised lines on your upper arm
Caused by simple office supplies
Wouldn't have happened
If I hadn't left you for just a second
For the moment my back was turned
You were half past gone and a mile away from better

Both of are breathless
The shiny twisted piece of metal
Somewhere on the floor

Sitting across from each other
Your shoulders shook against mine
My tears burned into your shirt
And were mopped up with your brown hair

I spoke through choked sobs
As hurt memories flashed through my brain
Like the trailers of movies
Showing only a quick remembrance
Of my past
That leaked into your present

But you feel as though your present is not a gift
For you're falling down the rabbit hole
Not to Wonderland
But to the land of pills and hospital beds
Where it is not wonderful in any shape or form

Your scars can still heal
If you stopped retracing the red lines you've made
And realized
You are something
I care about you
And so do others
So if you won't try for yourself
Try for them
Try for *me

As a child I was taught poetry
the quiet writing of feelings reflections
often in a beat with a rhyme and a few examples of alliteration

I was taught that as a woman my feelings
should be hid and kept quiet
that when I liked a boy it was not my place
to ask him whether he liked me back
I was taught to look out for myself by not dressing slutty
not walking home late at night
I was taught that my curvy figure would make people
question my morals my virginity my character
I was taught that as a girl I won't be as successful in math or science
I was taught to give myself to other pursuits
in liberal arts or domestic dealings
I was taught that even if by some miracle I found success in the fields where I "wouldn't be successful"
that I would and should give it up in a heart beat to raise a family
I was taught that I must share my feelings
my emotions my struggles
but not in a loud and open way

I had to remain quiet cool composed

Poetry was to be my outlet, written in couplets sonnets and verse
quiet and held inside written on paper
stored away from the world
to be read inside the mind
by others- men, teachers, parents
in order to decode me
and learn how to
keep
me

silent

me lost in Does
why is i me?

change comes
at eternity's end

anxiety eats Does
i sits stagnant

change, i, me
Does me becomes

Now becomes infinity's demise