Four Poems

Here's three night poems. Unfortunately, I tend to write a lot of my poetry in the moments between when I say that I'm going to go to bed, and when I actually do go to bed. Weird, huh? Well, here you go:

The Night Goes On
The night goes on and it won’t stop.
The restlessness and the drag on my mind,
like the cars gliding in the darkness,
seem to lack a clear destination

I’m being sucked in like a yawn,
a gaping hole, a chaos in my mind.
A nod of the head beckons the darkness,
but sometimes I fear tomorrow.

Sleep is not an easy destination
nor does it take the weight off my mind
from that which lurks in the darkness,
the night running at tomorrow.

I wouldn’t nod the head or yawn
if the body could escape the mind,
but it rests in peace, covered in darkness.
I wish, sometimes, the cars would never stop.

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A poem about the contradictory feelings of wanting to stay up, yet wanting to sleep.

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Like Steam
Look at this. Sadness rising like steam
and then dripping down the window
of my eyes. Whether I’m about to dream,
upset and tired, or ready to follow
the corridors of a child’s mess,
I sense warmth coming from below,
the tender ashes of forgetfulness.

Memory gives way to a calm within
that I cannot hold down or keep
because like flames they are thin
and fading. The past still lurks in the deep
and will grow again. Thus it begins.
But this time I will watch the sadness
and with one hand extend a gentle caress.

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A poem about dealing with sadness. Don't worry, I wasn't sad at the time. I think it was my sleepiness that watered my eyes slightly.

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The Sidelines
I get tired of sleeping where you can always find me
silent on the sidelines trying to be free,
where the shadows grow, beginning to be real
where what I dream is what I cannot see.

It’s like a dance; I stand at the wall and drum
the rhythm at my fingers, telling me to come,
telling me to love myself enough that I might dream
that stories can happen to anyone, to me.

Or beneath a snowstorm, beside a stream
the night is covered with the darkest gleam
and I wonder what it means to heal,
to be warm inside and say what I mean.

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I was thinking about the feeling of being symbolically on the sidelines. The nervousness of not knowing what to do, and therefore doing nothing.

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The Journey
Goodnight. The crickets’ chirp is calling.
The sun that once rose is falling
deeper into me. I feel the heat
and I reel with the swelling,
the worn-out beat of my heart.

Sleep tight. The wind is westward bound.
The sun gives way to the constant sound
of whistles played low. It moves below
and will prove unfound,
while the darkness flows. We’ll be apart.

Sweet dreams. The silence knows no fear.
The sun is deaf; it cannot hear
my gentle rest. My thoughts tell best
the stories I hold dear,
the evening quest of making morning art.

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Yeah, this is the one I wrote just last night. I'm not quite sure what I was thinking. I just liked the first line that popped into my head, and then the second, and then I went from there.

This is a lot of poetry at once, huh? And all with the setting of the night. I'm just weird that way, I guess. Far too many night poems. Hope you enjoy it. =)