Am I
Hearing
Conver-
Sations
At
2:25 AM
In my
Humble
Home
Where
Nobody's up past
Ten?
Or are those
The voices
Coming
Back to their homes
So they can tease
And laugh
And giggle
And frighten
And do all the things I loathe?
Is that
Really a light
Coming from
Under the door at midnight,
Or is that
Just my mind
Making me
Paranoid,
Giving me
A fright
Is that
Really a figure
Of a man
Outside my
Window,
Or am I too scared
To sleep at night
And keep myself up
Playing with shadows?
All
Of these
Questions
I can't
Even be certain are real,
Maybe they're something that I
Dreamed up once
That gave me a real-life feel.
Maybe
In
Another world,
Another life
Or soul,
These questions
Wouldn't be nothing;
Would be more than
Words in this empty hole.
I wrote this to a certain beat, it probably will read very strangely to anyone else that reads it.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryAll of our colors are different, and mine are still lost to oblivion. You can watch me try to find them.
