It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)

not much to write
so i sit here and type
the different attributes which surround my day
cultivated like a pottery wheel bearing clay
my hands are molding that which has limitless possibilities
to my perception of this perfect vase
bantering and yelling leading to shattering
redecoration of modern home decor
a righteous cause

A taxi driver charged me fifty bucks for a short trip.
And then the S.O.B. had the nerve to ask for a tip.
When I said no, he started giving me lip.
I pulled him out of his taxi and broke his hip.
With his expensive fares, he robs people blind.
When he asked for a tip, he was out of his mind.
I punched that sorry punk over and over again.
He tried to fight back by kicking me in the shin.
But I didn't even feel it and I certainly didn't care.
When I was done, he had to but a wheelchair.
When he overcharged me and asked for a tip, it was a stupid thing to do.
If you're a taxi driver who does the same, I'll find you and kick your *** too.

The heart was busy
As he was in the party
Some were ding at the melody
Some were making chorus in the harmony

He thought that was great vacancy
Until he saw the girls who were beauty
He fell in busy
Who will his lover for long trip
He was out without coughing of love tip
He found her asking
For transporting at nearest road
When she took some pounds
Her hand was cold
Making his heart cold

Her smile was sad, but it was brilliant
Taking his heart out
Of the surrounding world
Burned it at a rosy world
Hearing the deathless sing
Of  smartest bird
Asking himself with amazing
What makes his heart get puzzled

When he waked up
He found her was disappeared

I press the tip
against the paper.
It drips and bleeds.

One layer of my heart,
strips off for every poem i read.

you're on the tip of my tongue            
not quite fully formed
a word
the one i find so easy to forget

you trip me up
every time
start with a 'g'
three syllables

i've got you...almost                    
g-r-a-t-i-t-u-d-e
ah, that's right
rhymes with attitude                                  

i'm so thankful i remembered you at last

In arrow form storks,
Wing towards the mountain at dawn;
It’s one at the tip!