5 a.m.
It’s yet again
That time of day
When the street lights splash the asphalt the dawn of a rainbow,
Old people walk their silly dogs,
Joggers do their jolly jogging,
And the sky’s blue promises you the world,
With a yellow vanishing point disguised as tickle-me-pink.
Dark clouds gather
That could either
Represent the
Bags and bruises underneath of
Someone’s eyes,
Or the steam from a much desired Cuppa joe.

…Regrettably,

Someone, somewhere, out there, is
Dreaming of being an artist, and Rising to be a pencil pusher.
The cruelest irony feels like gazing
Into a mirror, only to find
Your happiest dreams and aspirations
Surrounding your reflection.
You turn around excitedly,
Pencil in itching hand, and find
The same world you’ve always known
Without daring to explore;
It hurts, knowing
You want so much more
Out of that godforsaken pencil,
The dreamer’s writing utensil.