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eighteen.
by Andrew S Adamsit's two a.m., and the bars have closed-
everybody disappears.
the drunks reside in taxicabs,
swerving off the road into coma.
then, there are those like me,
who refuse to hang around this place
when it's two a.m., closing time,
you would never know.
neon signs shouting twenty four hours
are only lit for eighteen-
the minutes thereafter are make believe;
a fairytale to the disoriented.
fighting to grip with another few seconds,
a struggle to justify the time of day-
having asked a question that cant be answered
when there is no clock to be found.
it's two a.m.
like it or not,
you're going home.
wherever your nightmare lives
is where you are tonight. 03/27/2004 Author's Note: this originally was a song i wrote, but i rewrote it into a bit more of a conventional poetry form. it's messy. please, any crits would be greatly appreciated.
Posted on 03/28/2004
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 03/30/04 at 04:37 AM you were on to something with making it into a song. you can achieve a more original tone than semisonic did with "closing time" because your style is so unique and at times visceral. i don't know how this looked originally, but i imagine you have softened it a bit.....and this is not soft stuff. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/31/04 at 05:30 PM Fascinating testimony to over imbibing. Oh the nightmarish memories of double vision and spinning head; always best in such a state to fall asleep in a sitting as opposed to lieing position, and drink plenty of water before lights out. Sweet dreams. :o) |
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