Awake

Awake.

The moon is up there

shining right through into my room.

Too bright,

it's glow is the mother of all fluorescent lights.

It's ugly

a pale gray of desolation.

There is no life in it

for it is only aglow with the distant light of the sun.

This ghost will not leave me be.

I check the clock,

five in the morning.

Sirens sound in the streets below me

but they are no longer background noise.

These blares become piercing, alarming

as they should be.

How dulled have I become,

that I hear these alarms,

these announcements of death and despair,

and I can go back to sleep!

or continue to shower

or tune my attention back into the TV

So I lay awake

watching the ceiling grow brighter with the sunrise

The sirens pass into silence

and again I forget to hope

or even wonder

if everything will be okay.

Poem From A Poem (a poem)

Hi there.
Hello.
I am a poem
and you are a human being.
I have a font
and you have a brain.
I am made of ink on paper
and you of DNA.
In fact, I am quite simple
comparatively.
So why do you keep looking for something more?
There's really nothing extraordinary to explore.
I'm not hiding anything- this I insist!
Yet so-called brainiacs still persist-
continuing to delve in between my lines,
trying to expand their overused minds
until they come up with something smart
and credit themselves as experts on the art.
But here's the secret that puts everything in its place:
What you'll find in between the lines
is.

simply.

blank.

space.

You see,
maybe my author just thought it would be fun
to write a poem from the perspective of one.
And maybe what she was trying to point out
is that people who claim to have figured this out
don't really know what they're talking about.