At 3a.m.,
some poets are waiting
to catch the peeling paint
on the ceiling
as if they are shooting stars.

At 3a.m.,
some poets yearn a talk
on the kitchen counter
with a butcher knife right beside
so they can slice their heart,
to heart.

And I, at 3a.m.,
whisper my dreams to the pipe
and ask for the rooster
not to wake me from my trance tonight

It does not matter to me
if the sun ever collides with the moon at 3a.m..
And I think that, perhaps,
I was never a poet.