While they sleep,
I am praying,
praying that morning never comes
so I won't be out of my shadows.
While they sleep,
I'm screaming silently
to ease the inevitable pain.
While they sleep,
my pain and heartaches
are turning into poetry
waiting to be heard by people
who close their eyes
to avoid the unavoidable
tomorrow's reality.
I'm awake now—3:47,
hoping that the god of sleep
shines his power upon me,
so I can close my eyes
and dream of roses and unicorns
instead of chaos and casualties
and real monsters and men.
While they sleep,
I hope they won't hear me cry,
as the glass palace
fall apart
every night, while they sleep.
YOU ARE READING
3:47
Poetrya random notebook that I'll fill with poems and stories to keep me busy (aka feeling productive) during quarantine. Stay safe and enjoy reading! ❤️
