3 A.M Poem by Blessing Kalamatila

The night reaches its peak
the crescent moon at its best sheen
the sky births darkness so
the sun is nowhere to be seen
See! when all fall asleep
The poet picks up His pen
to indite His pain.
The cold breeze caresses His hand
as He puts His thoughts onto the paper
His pad reeks of sweat
An Isle, he stands;
encircled by His tears
His peers know not of His Hurt.
He writes with a scowl on His face;
angry at what life has to offer
bothered by His own life's story;
I swear!
He thinks His the worst author.
He holds a mascular frame
but only His pen sees the clear picture.
Yes!
despite being confined to His troubles;
only the pen liberates Him.
Betrayed by the past
left with nothing
but only the pen to trust
He learns from the present
to keep closer His enemies first;
because the gift of friends
is soon unwrapped as a curse.