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Have you ever woken up with a poem inside of you?
God, it's painful.
While strings of words and phrases pile up in your head, you lie there, chest aching, until ink begins to spill across paper, everything in that week, month, year, that's you've thought or felt.
Two AM poems are the most beautiful kind.
They're always the most sincere, not rotted and spoiled with in-genuine strings of flowery phrases and neat descriptions, ruining the messy character of the poet's mind.
These kinds of poems are like conversations with an old friend, they taste like the places they were written, like the skies tinging with soft colors of pinks and oranges, of inky blue and sunshine and dust and cluttered desks and overflowing book shelves.
Have you ever woken up with a poem inside you?
I have. 

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