This Morning Poem by Warren Augustus de Guzman

4 o’clock in the freaking morning
all is a streaking blur,
the dancing has gone to the dogs
all the songs have been played
and the food left on the table
isn’t enough to hold the interest
of a cockroach creeping through the mess
of half empty plastic cups
and spilled beer and crushed peanuts

4 o’clock in the freaking morning
you spent the entire night screaming
through decibels of amplified noise
at a girl you caught smiling at herself
but unmistakably in your direction
and she didn’t understand a single word
actually thinking you were promoting
some otherworldly form of consumerism
while, out of courtesy, nodding with the music.

4 o’clock in the freaking morning
sitting on the curve beside the carpark
were a dozen fender benders would kill
the mood of all in the vicinity
and erase all of the merriment and de-stressing
that took hours and hours
and monstrous amounts of alcohol to get
but instead falling short just a tad
as everyone was just too drunk to get laid.

4 o’clock in the freaking morning
and the shy girl in the white dress
and turquoise top hung her head
pretty low while playing with her
string of pearls asking herself why
the hell you spent the whole night
looking around the crowded room
talking to strangers and sipping on jack
and not noticing her at all.

4 o’clock in the freaking morning
clueless as to how the hell
you’re supposed to get home
drunk and miserable and
robbed of your motor skills
you resign yourself to sit on the couch
stinking of gasoline and vomit
and curl up into a ball with
your head resting on a pizza box.