Writing Time

The silence after midnight shouts so loud
That I can’t ignore it’s call. It’s when I write
The truest things. While others sleep, the cloud
That hides what I feel lifts. I await the night

To record the deeper, more painful stuff
That rattles round and makes the daytime hard
To traverse. A masquerade is enough
To get by, but night brings out and forward

Silent screams that need to be heard if I
Have any hope of seeing the next day
Through with reasonable outcome. To die
A little inside, but keep thoughts at bay

That do betray a quiet anger might
Help me find real catharsis in the night.


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