It’s 2 A.M.,
I lie here awake,
I try to figure out my latest mistake,
‘Cause it’s eating away at my heart.
We walked into the room,
Silent stares writing in stone,
They all stand against the wall one by one,
Still writing the interpretation not left alone.
But that’s all right,
What they do as their eyes pierce my skin,
It doesn’t change sight,
‘Cause I know it’s not me living in that dark sin.
They saw at me as an outcast,
The black against the white,
They all dwell on upon the past,
The future is what they tend to lose sight –- of.
I find it hard to believe,
That salvation comes whenever you ask,
I asked for rescue but didn’t receive,
So breathe and maybe I can remove this haunting mask.
But I guess if you turn around,
And look through glass,
You’d hear the sound,
And see the very dark past.
We all lived it,
Though, we don’t say it.
Life falls apart,
It unravels and begins to tangle,
You lose control before you start,
And yet your life, still unmanageable, dangles.
If you took the time to see,
That life moves far too fast,
You’d forget the memories that irk and tease,
You wouldn’t subject yourself to the dying pain that lasts.
It’s 2 A.M.,
I find myself writing this with a sheet of paper and a pen,
I don’t why I am,
But I know that mistake was not mine,
But it belongs to the one that find faults in the tables,
And dwell on what they can’t change.
It’s still 2 A.M.,
And I finally don’t feel so deranged.
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Comments about this poem (2 A.M. by Hope Ramone )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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