3AM

I don't write poetry because its cute
I do it because 3ams are my loneliest hour
finding myself writing poems on things I thought to be content with
they spill on to these pages like a cup of water held by an alcoholic.
a journal written in the language only misfits would understand.
They say I have a filthy mouth but I'm a poet with a broken mind.
We all talk dirty and money is the only paper we write on now.
We are only human.
And we are the biggest mystery this world has.
God created us and they say science explained us.
trying to make sense of myself and life is not for the faint hearted
I've given up so just give up with me
I speak as I run with wolves but really I spend my days being fed knowledge I have no use of knowing.
a place where teaching kids to be less like themselves
the square-root of pie wont take me to heaven
so save it for someone else.

life is a mystery, and god let me be clueless.
I have watched the sun set and rise, rainbows form in the middle of showers, lightning strike in complete darkeness still don't understand why there are those who don't believe in god
the dead wont let us sleep
but the living wont let us die in peace.
this isnt lessons for the living this is how you raise the dead.
foolish cities filled with those that pity, with cracked mothers and that raise broken children
people need to be loved but want to be worshiped.
we dont have money to feed the poor but we have money to fund a wars.
they don't see that we can know what is in the future if you learn from the past
my mother told me not to grow up to fast
theres plenty of time to join this war
soundproof your heart
make sure they cant hear how hard it beats when you lock eyes with them
when you see shooting stars they arent there to be wished upon its the galaxy bowing us.
let me take a picture of what i have seen
and let my mind focus like this camera lens does so well.
they say a picture is a thousand words
but what happens to the 1001 word?
but ive waffled on enough
its nearly 4am and this poem has gotten to long.