It was 3 am,
The darkness still covering the skies,
Except this time, I wasn't alone
With my thoughts.

3 in the morning,
And i hadn't drank or eaten anything,
I felt sick,
Not just physically but mentally.

And in that unholy hour did i feel
The unpleasant rush of emotions,
Waves of overlapping thoughts,
And all i ever wanted was it to stop.

It was 3 in the morning,
The noise of alcohol drowned
In a sea of probably my consciousness,
And the only help i was able to ask for was

"I want to die."

But a poke on my forehead
was all i needed to tell myself
That maybe, just maybe,
They understood my call for help.