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Disappear here Sep 2015
5am
it's 5am and although my body is frozen still, my mind races.

it's 5am and I'm terrified

it's 5am and I'm riddled with guilt

it's 5am and

I am the one responsible

for murdering you

it's 5am and

you're dead and

I'm dead inside
It's 5am
Writing a sob story that's too pathetic to cry over
It doesn't matter what you did, what you're doing or what you're going to do because I just want to be with you
I feel like a crazed boy band fan who knocks on their door at 5am
  just to tell them how amazing they are
but they already know that
so the girl look twice as stupid then she did before her knuckles tapped their door.
At least they have body guards so they can prevent her from making a fool
Who is there to protect me, to prevent me?
Am I suppose to be my own sercurity
because I'm not as strong as I make myself seem
  I can't lock my feelings away I can't program my mind to put a 1-2-3-4-5 digit code and store it some place.
It's more than attraction and your beautiful face
or the way my heart races down the empty road of our relation ship we never had
You and I wanted different things. You wanted my body
even then it felt like you didn't
  I keep hoping and hoping that things will be different.
That my feelings will change and you take my position. But it wont and these butterflies in stomach tell me why.
  Because its 5am when I should be asleep
or at least reading a book or watching tv but its 5am and I'm writing about you.
The sun is rising and the birds are chirping .
The noise of the birds tapping at my window annoys me because it reminds of me you and I not being together
it reminds that not only are we not lovers but we're barely even friends
Taylor Peters Oct 2010
How quiet it gets
Just after snow
When at 5am walking out the front door
Onto the lawn
Hearing muffled road noise
Slipping like sand through a sieve
And whispering peripherally
Until sputtering out in indivisible steps
Dimming and fading
Like a cigarette
In a glass of
Water
Flowing slower and slower
Like a river freezing
Locking and waxing
Until woven into outbound threads
And creaking as it settles
Grasping on to tree branches
Yellow glow
Silent 5am scene
With streetlight
How moonlight so easily mingles
Kaye Canter May 2014
5am
When I wake at 5am,
I no longer am greeted by tufts of blond and brown.
Instead I am greeted by a pillow
With an empty indent where you used to lay
And it is then that I realize
When I wake at 5am
you will never awaken with me.
Olive Richardson Jun 2013
5am
5am mornings, we lay
under coffee stained sheets
with whispered words and promises
and peppermint toothpaste kisses
leaving scars on my skin

7am mornings, we lay
my head resting on your chest
until you leave for the day
with rushed goodbyes and kisses on cheeks
your smell left lingering

10am mornings, i lay
waking to the sound of raindrops on windows
with tired eyes and a heavy heart
my arm left resting
in the place where you once were
5Am
My demons haven't been kind to me again.
They wake me up after 5am
And play me the fool.
I can see you kissing another man.
And my heart rips in two.
Because I wasn't good enough.

And I end up crying myself to tears.
For stupid reasons I can't control.
Only because I am vulnerable.
I just feel that I've pushed you away.
With my clingy ways and fears.
I just loved the days
We spent together.
Is that a crime?
I dont want it to go away.
Please dont go astray....

Am i being obsessed?
Or do I care so much
That im losing my ******* mind.
Are these feelings valid?
Or am I kidding myself.
And killing time with sorrow.
I guess some things never change.
Them before me. Her before me.
Whatever makes their day.
Im probably better off alone.
"Love yourself" they always say.
Love yourself, fight another day.

And I end up crying myself to tears.
For stupid reasons I can't control.
Only because I am vulnerable.
I just feel that I've pushed you away.
With my clingy ways and fears.
I just loved the days
We spent together.
Is that a crime?
I dont want it to go away.
Please dont go astray....

I love you.
Please...
Dont go astray....
-_-
Kam Rayefski May 2012
A pen and a man's guitar
never got a man so far.
Someone's gotta make the world run
and burn some dreams away
that 5am man.

Just like how it starts to rain
the running water circles the drain
and you stop and take a look
he's a lot like you.

Early to rise
he sees the skies
that pale morning blue
who knew the birds could sing
about the day ahead, and what it could bring
that 5am man.

He lies awake for his own sake
and hopes for what could come tomorrow
the work we find,
it shapes our mind
and fills our pockets with what we still need to borrow.

That 5am man
he sees the needs
tries to find
that 4pm girl
who'll give him the time
that 5am man.
Emilee Ayers Apr 2016
It's five am in Amsterdam
Far away from where I am
I close my eyes
Let out a sigh
And pretend I'm there again
Purcy Flaherty Oct 2018
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****,
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****,
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.

She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Another old poem
The inspiration from William and Don G
ephemeral Jul 2014
"Sometimes I want to kiss you and sometimes I want to **** you"
Your texts run through my mind
Over and
Over and
Over and over and
Over and
stop, please just make the voices stop
"I really like you like a lot like sometimes too much"
how the hell can you say
something like that
and then decide
to ignore me barely
Two hours later
I don't understand
I'm sorry
I love you
Come back
I need you
I'm lying
You said you hated me
You were lying
*******
I can't think straight anymore
And all of this is your fault
But it's partly
my fault, too
Because I knew I was falling
For a disaster waiting to happen
From the moment I met you
But I decided to let myself fall
Anyways
Even though they all told me
What a **** you were
How you would end up hurting me
And I didn't listen
Because there were times
Past midnight when you became so
Vulnerable, almost like you lay
Your guard down and let me in
I told myself you would never
Fall for a girl like me

We were just friends
But just friends don't do the things
that we did
They don't hold on tight to each other every time they hug, as if
That hug will be their last
They don't sing to each other
They don't harmlessly tease each other
Hell, they don't even *look

at each other
The way that we did
I looked at you
Like you were my everything
And you looked at me
Like I was something precious,
That needed to be protected
If only I could've realized it then
I should've realized that you loved me
From how badly you wanted to help me
From how you cried when I etched punishments into my skin
From how you would casually touch me, whenever you could
You would lazily wrap an arm around me, keeping me close.
you put me through so much hell
I shouldn't be thinking about you
in this way
I shouldn't be thinking about
your body
Or our late night facetimes
Or what your lips would taste like
Pressed against mine
I should hate you right now. So much.
But I can't
I can't.
I literally just typed this entire thing without reading through it or trying to make sense of my thoughts. If you aren't able to understand this, I'm so sorry.
5am, I sit alone my mind feeling so bright
is it early morning or the middle of the night.
The wind still howls winters tune
and trees are dancing in the dale.
I yearn for sun and summers warmth
but all I get is cold and hail.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

The days start dark and keep me hidden
as if to say that it's forbidden,
to laugh and sing and have the fun
I get from walking in the sun.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

I long to see the flowers smile,
the shadows form on my sundial.
The smell of grass that's freshly mown,
the shoots from seeds so freshly sown.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

Smiling children everywhere
running around without a care.
Winter woollens stashed away
and let's forget those rainy days.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

Take away this winters cold
it only makes me feel old.
Bring the sun and bring the light
and take away this awful night.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

Early morning sun please shine,
and as I sit with glass of wine.
I'll try to not let my mind splinter
and forget all about the winter.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
to keep me warm and give me ease.
The winters blues do not please,
just make me shiver, cough and sneeze.

So comeback Mr Sunshine please
and take away this cold disease.
Once again to see you glow
and throw your warmth through my window.
8th January 2015
Tasmin Howells Jan 2014
It's 5AM;
you're trying really hard
not to wake her sleeping form
in the bed next to you

She smells like every dream
that you've ever had
and couldn't put into words

She feels like the home
that you've been searching
for, for years -
that one perfect place
where you felt kind of okay

She looks like a Spring day
that you experienced as a kid;
fresh, new and blooming
with colour in her cheeks -
the best day of your life

She sounds like
every single compliment
that you never learned to accept

She tastes like the difference
between sugar and salt
although, she can make
salt taste like sugar without
even trying

The sun is filling the room
through the cracks in your curtains
and the day is already starting
to linger of her scent

She is every one of your
five senses come to life
and she is right beside you,
right now
Nearly 5 AM in the Morning...
and I hate the night, but love it's true colors of darkness within a light so surreal you can truly feel.

The moon gather's within the stars as company to shine you.
Sometimes the clouds will cover the moon, like a blanket as he lays his head to rest, that's why he's called the man on the moon, not for the person who claims to have walked it, but for the face engraved into the bright shadows and creviced surfaces surrounding the molded, circular not so perfect Moon.

Thank you Moon for keeping us company...
But why do I hate the night, because your time goes faster than day. When your lover is with you and it's time to say goodnight, those are the times I despite.

The beauty of the night, is very real and wish...sometimes...could be longer. The only moment where I get to feel free.
Now is time for me to try and sleep, only if I can..
some nights, my thoughts race like a mustang in the distance of a field of golden wheat grass.
So I come here, to vent out...to only read my poems back at myself.
I will try to sleep.
Goodnight.
Connor Mar 2015
Death is lights on the sixth floor

of an apartment building across the street

turning on at 5am followed by the sound of

a running tap flowing through

an open window.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
To finish anything in entirety requires a full circle- and goodbye is a picky eater. Good is the pieces of pie fully enjoyed already- don't forget the fingertips good. The ones licked crisp and clean from the plasticware every time. While bye remains the uneaten slices spoiling silence in the kitchen. Crumbs too stubborn to move along, to move anywhere at all. Notice these slices never once greeted each other on a dinner plate- and there is no place for distance during dessert.

2. Goodbye is invisible ink scribbled too quickly for certainty. Proper sendoffs deserve the type of visibility that billboards form. So if you have the audacity to send seven letters my way disguised as our final embrace- I will unwrap your formality, like 5am Christmas morning, and pretend I'm on the naughty list. Hidden messages lack a sense of transparency that leaves only second guessing and farewells should need no crystal *****.
Goodbyes are as good as guesswork- and we are not fortune tellers.

3. Goodbye implies loss or rejection, but well wishes are meant for times
when loss is undeniably absent. Wishing wells bathe separation with good intentions- each copper coin anointed an underwater masterpiece.
While goodbye addresses detachment with partial reflections, splitting waves too strict for clarity. So all I see are the ripples of me spread too thin, the pieces of me scattered in every direction. Goodbye wishes no one well.

4. Goodbye is simply one word. Goodbye is not naturally destructive. Goodbye is no vocal cord villain.
Words are neither inherently good nor bad because we ascribe their significance, but evidence suggests a one word farewell serves innocent ears unjust death sentences.

5. The moment you allow I love you to skydive from your tongue, the word goodbye steals the parachutes mid-launch causing fatal free fall to artificial grass your hands never actually planted. This land is lunar rock rare- desolate when day breaks.
Goodbye is not fertilizer for greener pastures- rather an open invitation for wildfire to reduce the cosmos to ashes.

6. Endings are inevitable and sometimes quite necessary. And I'm not suggesting we prolong foregone conclusions. But our parting words need not necessarily be regrettable. Goodbyes are often stressed in tragic spectacles only designed for Broadway stages and sometimes all that's needed
is a genuine platform to stand on to say something like-- I'll miss you or I'm not ready for this or I can't do this anymore.


7. Goodbye is not a last resort.
Last resorts lead to final destinations you never come home from and you were never home, you were never home for me, you were always goodbye. Goodbye was your one way ticket to paradise, the kingdom your words worshiped and call me a traitor if you must, but the paradox you fundamentally found comfort in is tyranny trapped in one breath.
And that's never been comforting enough for me to believe in, never been real enough for me to hold.
Goodbye is sweet sorrow- one hollow word that makes your smile hurt.
It's solid rain on sunny days, stolen hearts on lay away. It's two syllables that were forced to hold hands that were never ever friends to begin with.
Goodbye is an oxymoron- and it will never justify your warm hello.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.
Lyzi Diamond Aug 2013
In the windowpane of a well-lit city bus at night, this is where I want to be. New York City yelling yelling two days awake at 5am. Chaos.

People die and people die and things happen but we just want to dance dance dance. I dance on the graves of my forefathers, I dance on the graves of the lace-laden aunts. I dance dance dance.

He smells like the wrong thing, like 2002. Like a coffee shop conversation gone wrong, a first kiss never had. I smell my knees as I sit at my computer, I take half-**** photos of myself and send them to people I barely know. I flirt and I lie (awake on a Saturday morning). All of my sentences start in the possessive.

When she found out that her toes were different sizes she just near threw herself off the building. When the phone never picks up, the people up the list from her. She gets a wrong feeling about the place she's in. But she still asks for the space on the floor, still wants to be there. 5am and the traffic continues, cop cars disguised as taxis. We had to convince her to hold back-- no one wanted blood on their shoes.

When you get frowns and one word answers from your heroes, when you read too much into everything. When 5am rolls around. Maybe sometime, sooner or later . . . but I don't think I'm ready yet. I just don't want to, I'm not feeling up to it. The sun is rising too fast. The earth is spinning and I feel like I'm ten years old again. Holding hands in the grass and denying kisses, what has happened to me? I am not connected.

That summer that we wore no shoes? And we danced on the fourth of July? And we listened to your sister's records?

It's just one of those things.
Gwen Pimentel Dec 2015
12mn: I was babaw. I made a "funny" joke. You didn't laugh. Usual. I made a funner joke. And this time, you laughed.

1am: I changed our chat emoji to a nose. You realized you were turning 17 in 23 hours. I asked you what you learned from this year, and you said "I hate people", and I wished you didn't hate me.

2am: I was asking you what picture I should tweet for your birthday. Why didn't we get a picture last night. You're laughing at me for wearing the huge *** NASA shirt you gave me. (Thank you a bunch for that.)

3am: I asked you how the Mcdo was. You said "good". My tummy grumbled.

4am: You asked me if I was up and honestly I wasn't – you just woke me up. But conversations at this hour are the best so why not? You sent me some songs. And my groggy self listened to them half asleep. You said 20 hours til you turn 17.

5am: Kuya Soy just left. I am sad. You said jmsn at this hour is great – and he is. You're now gonna try to sleep (**** it, just when I was awake). I asked you what time you were born so I could greet you on that time. But **** it was at 7 am, still, I set my alarm. Goodnight and goodbye, for the mean time.

6am: I write because you exist. Woah that dramatic effect though (just kidding). But really, I am awake, writing my greeting for you. I fell asleep with my notes open.

10am: I was still asleep, you messaged me in reply to "I write because you exist", you said same.

12nn: I just woke up and I just saw your message.

1pm: I followed you with my 2016 account. You followed me back.

2pm: You sent me a hugot quote about walking away or trying harder. I think I'm going for the try harder option. You never know how close you actually are to your goal, right? You said you're turning 17 in less than 12 hours.

3pm: Easy to talk to, hard to understand.

4pm: I learned that your mom's name is Nilda. Hi Tita pls like me half jk. Actually not jk.

5pm: You told me everyone was making 365 accounts. Actually, it's 366.

6pm: I told you I was sad about kinder eggs having genders. "idk lol ugh HAHAHA"

7pm: I asked you if you were okay, you said yes. (And I wished that you'd never lie to me whenever I ask if you're okay)

8pm: Some ungrateful btch be tweeting about not wanting to get food for Christmas. You say "BRUH FOOD IS ONE OF THE GOOD GIFTS MY *****", I laughed.

9pm: You made me listen to Jidenna (aheheh ahas) and I'm reminded of your great music taste.

11pm: You told me your family was fighting. This is your "worst christmas". I want so desperately to do anything to make you feel better, and I am trying to help you.

12mn: Still trying. I wanna hug you to absorb all your sadness.
hbd jm
neko Dec 2014
5am
sometimes music plays from my walls at night and that's okay

sometimes at 3am i hear a man's voice coming from the living room and then my dog starts barking but i don't question it

that's okay too

i've watched so many horror movies & read so many stories that when i'm scared i just think "if i'm meant to die, i will"

don't be scared because whatever's supposed to happen will happen whether you like it or not
Willow Branche Mar 2018
He tells me that I’m beautiful.
That I’m good at what I do.
He tells me that I’m worth every cent while the clock ticks to two.
The mattress is up against the window.
The door is locked x3.
I sit and watch as the smoke floats and drifts around me.
I use my magic words.
And I do my hair just right.
I’ll make a bunch of money if I can make it through the night.
The drugs make it bearable.
So my body hardly feels.
This is my reality now. This is what is real.
Makeup painted on my face
And Fishnets up my thighs.
I tell him that I need him, right to his buggin eyes.
His pipe and rock are on the floor.
So I watch where I walk.
When he gets it in his system I can hardly even talk.
The paranoia eats his mind
As the clock ticks to 4.
He locks us in the bathroom, so no one can see us anymore.
The last of his drugs are gone
As the hour comes to 5
He tells me that I’m beautiful. That I make him feel alive.
He drops me off at home
And thanks me for what I’ve done.
“Last night was great.” He says with a smile,
“I Can’t wait for the next one!”
tosh Nov 2021
Bakit ganon ang buhay? minsan masaya pero madalas malungkot.
Bakit ganon ang buhay? payamanan hindi pasarapan.
Bakit ganon ang buhay? hindi ko maintindihan parang gusto ko ng humimlay.
ewan
Ruthie Jun 2014
5am
Its 5am and I've been 'sleeping' for 7 hours.
What a brilliant lie.
How am I going to function tomorrow...
Rapunzoll Jul 2017
now we're in the backseat,
and my stomachs turning.
maybe i just want people in my life
in an un-romantic way.
i like to get under their skin,
and steal their souls story.
i love how everyone is different,
and i can't hate a single thing,
because it makes them human;
the girls who steal bikes at midnight,
and the guys who offer their apartment
out at night.
i find myself in the wrong crowd,
i find myself in these situations,
in the backseat,
with someone who's speaks a
language far from consent
and it's all desperation.
his hands on my neck,
and there's no attraction,
physically.
mentally he has a way of making
my head spin faster than the
alchohol,
and i'm not sure if i'm
kissing him sober,
or if the night itself is drunk,
and i'm waiting for the sun to shine
a light on my mistakes,
as it always does.
i take their stories, they take mine,
but i'm not sure what part of it's true.
the girl in the backseat,
the girl shaking,
the rigid lips and bites.
maybe we won't speak,
maybe he'll lecture me again,
for using my body as a token
to pay my way.
love is an expensive thing.
© copyright
andrea hundt Aug 2013
If 3am could talk it would probably tell me all your secrets.
it would tell me the position you sleep in to feel safe
and the ice cold comment your best friend made.

if 4am could talk it would probably only whisper rumours.
It would assume you can't sleep because he hurt you last year
And it would conclude the fluttering of your eyelids had something to do with what you failed to tell 3am.

If 5am could talk it would be nervous and unsteady.
It would look to your still body and wonder if you were at peace, and if it should wake you.
It might ask 6am to follow up.

If 6am could talk, it would try to be cheery. For the sake of 5am.
It might say you slept just fine, and tomorrow will be the same.
6am might lie and have you shaken and stirred for 7am to handle.

If 7am could talk, it would not know what to say.
It would tell me you were happy being unhappy
7am would giggle mindlessly and hope I went away.

By 8am, no one will be talking but you. And you will tell me a mix of what I already heard through the whispers of the night before.

By 9am the silence of the noise will begin all over again, and you'll wonder why nothing has changed. Why 3am can't be trusted, and 8am hasn't saved you from the incessant humming.

I want to listen to you at 3am, not the silence that tells me what wasn't mine to hear.

I want the truth at 4am, and to hold you when 5am can't.

I want to push away the last of the darkness at 6am, and I want to give 7am something to talk about.

I want to be your saving grace at 8am. I want to be the change you feel at 9am, when you hear the music of the world instead of the noise.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2018
<•>
4/10/18 10:55pm ~ 4/22/18 2:02 am

Introduction

a simpler than plain fact,  
deserving reflection beyond the obvious,
containing obverse emotional mine field sonar arrays
floating on an ocean unhidden,
listening for the ocean's bleeping hid-dens,
before surrendering to its ****-sinking power of time/gravity
the better life elsewhere is always someone’s misery


<•>
confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage

someone stood on lower Broadway at 5am
watching the sanitation men sweeping up the aftermath of a super bowl  victor’s celebration, with broom heads borrowed from giants’ moustaches

passage of a single thought,
that the victorious celebrated on the parade should
a posteriori be required to participate
in this flip-side experience as
‘active cleaner uppers,’
re-enacting the famous Persian Sufi adage,

“this is too shall pass”

someone whispers we have blessed lives,
rich in the experiential, free of the dragging boredom
of the daily draining of making it, head well above of the
humanizing periodic regularizing water dunkin’ reminder
of just
or

“we too shall pass”

so even the confetti honorees must have too someone whose
life to aspire, the top of the heap, in chained food chain world

assaying perfection and the luck thereof,
picture perfect lives cannot withstand tsunamis of
waves eroding their shapes, wearing boundaries down,
do not forget the invisible invitation from the riptide
just beneath the calm surgical surficial surfacing disguises

if you face my book, will find in a later chapter prior
the fine sorry lines, the pierced titanium bulletproof vest,
the divorces of mistakes remade, the haunted envisioning,
the obligatory items that keep you awake, those awesome
responsibilities that take many small bites of a soul’s coverlet
that cannot be removed isolated jailed or desperate destroyed

confetti rained interspersed with droplets of sand grains,
this man of constant tomorrows, hopeful Mondays, bad Fridays,
is a man of constant sorrows,
pictures and poems life celebrating a never allowed to forget
lucky runs out like the string from packages saved
when no more packages arrive

when the packages no longer get delivered
oh that started years ago, when came the bile instead
of the blood’s replacement clotting factors

passing is a sometime thing
sometime is a most imprecisely defined terminus
sometime means that today’s confetti is a day away
as resurrected garbage
but nonetheless,
you are forever responsible for the cleanup


a picture worth a thousand words
but in me lives
tens of ten thousands words,
including

“this is too shall pass”

<•>
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2467058/writers-block-kick-the-editor-out-of-the-room/
finally finished fin
Catherben Nov 2013
5am
Early in the morning, as the hive mind descends into slumber,
When most fall prey to sleep, a few neurone finally awaken;
The creative come out to paint dreams
And discuss the day's events free from the scorn of the logical.
Together they share a laugh as they rule over the dormant brain.

With a smaller audience
The shy learn to speak
And those present marvel
At the words that escape their lips.

Later in the day,
A smile exchanged,
Recognition of what transpired.

When the remains of their creations are discovered
Little can be done to defend it from biased eyes;
Yet neither shame nor regret is felt in the hearts of the creative,
Only anticipation for their time to come once more.

When tired eyes meet,
A sleepy nod exchanged,
A promise I meet up again
After a few nights of rest.
I won a poetry contest at my high school with this poem but it is literally about me and my friends making **** jokes online at five am...
This is a poem about trying to justify said **** jokes when my other friends woke up and saw them all over tumblr
Amanda Kay Burke May 2018
Waking up suddenly, too early,
It is dark and only 5AM,
But I know that there is no hope,
Of drifting to sleep again.

Thinking keeps me from dreams,
Heaven in my mind,
Night drags on and on,
Without peace to find.

There is a space inside my head,
Where a filter should clearly be,
Instead I relive the hurt,
Remembering with alarming clarity.

I close aching eyes once more,
And wait for sleepy scenes to start,
No relief will come tonight,
To ease hunger of this heart.
Written 3/20/12
Cassidy Shoop Apr 2014
It’s been thirteen months and I’ve forgotten your scent. I don’t remember the way it feels for your fingertips to brush against my bare skin. I can’t recall the spark that would reignite every time our lips came in contact. I can’t remember the way your tongue would taste in the early hours of the day. I don’t even remember what your voice sounded like whispering through the phone at 5am. But it’s been thirteen months, and I won’t dare forget the way it felt to watch you walk out of my life just as quickly and unexpectedly as you walked into it.
Colm Feb 2021
Cold coffee settles me
And stirs the morning into dew
In a warm body
Hayley Simpson Sep 2012
Sometimes I don't like what I see in the mirror.
Love handles over the jeans like grubby hands picking for the last slice of pizza.
Sometimes I don't like the words written on paper.
Words hunched over till 5am that still come scrambled as my breakfast.
Sometimes I don't like how I kiss you.
My lips not being able to move in the way your hips do in those jeans.

But...

Sometimes I can't handle love that I see for myself.
How I find every scar on my skin a Van Gogh of flesh and memory.
Sometimes Laughter can not help but shuffle its' way from my chest.
Every facebook status a Emmy award winning season of words
Sometimes I can not wait for the next day.
When I get to taste the air in my lungs only to have it taken away again by the sun.

Sometimes a love/hate relationship is good....sometimes.
Written (2012)

Author: Wrote this for everyone, girl or boy, who hates to look at their reflection. You are loved from the inside out. It's love that we feel that others see and they are attracted to. Love yourself, because you are the only one who can be sure of that love.
Kay Jul 2014
5am
today I took 8 shots and i called you

I just wanted to hear your voice

but then I realized I was drunk and stupid so I hungup before you answered

you called me back twice and i was way too terrified to answer

so you texted me asking "who is this?"

and I think the blood in my veins stopped just as fast as the air in my lungs did

I guess I had hope you called back because you actually wanted to talk to me

after 3 text messages you went on ignoring me and you ended up all over my twitter tl looking for another bootycall

it took every muscle, feeling, and bone in my body to keep the tears from streaming out of my eyes and down my cheeks

I think I'm gonna miss you forever

It's been 5 and a half months why are you still in my head?

you're taking over my thoughts
kind of like you took over my heart

and I don't think you're giving them back
I ****** up.
Jay Bryant Dec 2012
When I write late in the night or early in the day,
I like dimmed lights,
pressing random thoughts into these keys,
As she lays next to me trying to sleep,
Novocaine plays and describes my day,
My words slur in this hypogongic state.
Lets take a trip somewhere far away.
A voyage to Atlantis or maybe just to another state.
Let my paradise be more then I dream.
Let it be a place where I can enjoy the birds sings.
With painted on scenery, Yeah, thats the way.
Let me groove with you,
let us dance on rose petals I feel so smooth with you.
My eyes are to heavy to carry
But the burden of sleep has already been buried.
Suddenly life's not so bad the struggle is still there but
The Struggles not so bad.
I've revised my ways without any kind of Rehab.
Eyes fall real slow lets hope I don't relapse.
Perhaps this is the quiet before the storm
Or maybe I'm sitting in the eye of the storm.
Tho, I do adore her for more than just her form,
I take whats inside the machine thats inside.
Mechanisms that hide from the naked eye but
I know them well so I can see them without even trying.
How dry is this life without the rain that pours from inside.
A drought thats good if you truly understands whats inside.
Late night missions in place of late night cries.
Stand up for what you feel is right,
I'll play the Stick up kid and rob the rich of their joy and pride.
I'll play Robin Hood in the storm tonight.
Chris T Jul 2013
a poem written at 5 AM - no sleep that night*

seen too many faces
melting into backdrops,
concrete boxes
where gray air
paint lungs gay,
where diamonds
fall too ******
frequently
blurring the windows
of colorless rooms,
tiny rooms,
that suffocate,
garrote
and wash the trees
and the flowers
into frail state,
where the moon
is nothing,
just a ***** coin,
where the dogs
howl and howl,
cry and cry,
in agony,
where everyone
is lost,
them you and me,
lost
this is what happens when i write without sleepin'.
nina Sep 2015
They say it's so quiet at 5am
But if you listen close
It's not quiet at all
In fact
You can hear everything
At 5am
Garbage Dog Oct 2015
It's been 5 months
Recovering from 2 years
Of gentle giggles and heart felt hugs
2 am conversations and 3 am tired kisses
5 am would bring brightening skies and quiet goodnights
You always were a night-owl

I remember running through the forest
Staring out at our special spot
Listening to the water trickle down the creek
And something about the sparks in your eyes
Really made the place disappear
Even surrounded by all this magnificent nature
I was still lost in your beauty

I remember telling you my dreams
The adventurous journey across the Milky Way
When it rained clocks and time stopped
And that really stupid one about the tricycle in the skate park
You would always listen and tell me yours
But the real dream was seeing you when I woke up

I remember many special things with you
You were my first girlfriend
My stunning homecoming date
The first person to make me cry out of happiness
You were my best friend
I will never forget that

I remember a bitter-sweet memory of us too.
The room was quiet
I only heard the scratching from your pet mice.
The street lamp crawled through the blinds
And a warm hand touched my red, flooded, cheek
And our lips met
My first kiss, Your first kiss
Complete.

It's been 5 months
Recovering from 2 years
Of gentle giggles and heart felt hugs
2 am conversations and 3 am tired kisses
5am only brings my tear filled eyes nowadays
*I've always been an insomniac

— The End —