Midnight,
When the old man's clocked out,
The kid's tucked in.
That silent, and darkened hour.
Everyone's gone to bed.
Midnight,
Is for the loner wander of empty streets,
Is for the grownups scared of secrets and lies beneath their sheets.
Is for the teenager whose heart beats through the plug of headphones,
Is for the child who cannot sleep, because of the shadows that creep.
Midnight,
When everyone's gone to bed,
Is not for the lovers
Is not for the contented.
Midnight,
Is for those who search,
Who search in the blind of party lights,
Who search in the story of blue light,
Who search in the words that's write.
Midnight,
All they've done is so far gone,
When the day's given up,
They still cling on.
*yes I wrote this at midnight 12:11 to be exact
YOU ARE READING
Symptoms
PoetryPoetry. Love. Happiness. Sadness. Depression. Guilt. Regret. Struggle and Confliction. We may all be breathing, we may all have our hearts beating. But these are our vital signs. These are symptoms that prove we're alive.
