This Hour Poem by Hunter James

This hour indescribable to my naked mind
The rain continues to fall despite grizzly bears moan.
This hour , I realise I am no writer,
I am just a boy who cannot ever sleep, a boy who types his heart at the darkest hour of night
I do not live the writers life, I breathe words though I do not type.
I be no writer,
To close ones eyes , and to type the bottomless of the bottom of the mind.
No consciousness intended, no clarity lingering.
I live trapped amongst these crazy words,
I love and hate all equally.
To be tearfully sorry, I am. For the moon is not sufficient if underneath cloud.
My sorrow is not genuine unless above armour,
My words only mere syllables unless displayed in beauty.
I roam unconventionally, timing my words like a steam bomb, until this hour strikes.
Sorry if I bore you with these self absorbed statements, I have no control I promise you that.
The rain continues to fall, my eyes heavy, her presence subsided.
Just me and my words strung like vomit.