Day 42: Writing at 3.25

There are some nights that are about incomplete conversations, that remind you that no matter what you figure out at 3.25 in the morning it can't possibly be the reason you are still awake talking about life. There are those who have spoken to me about madness and then there are the mad ones themselves who have tried to make sense. There were holes in days I couldn't listen to, and the ones we couldn't plug . Crossed wires in your head makes you the you. And makes me "me". You have hardly begun to ask me the right questions I will answer them anyways. I wrote the beginning to this piece Friday night around that time, wide awake among the many happenings and musings thinking about the things that keep coming back and the music we love to listen when it's quiet outside.

Writing at 3.25
Yes we are all but lost children, in the games that grown up play
We tread so strong , we move on from time we live the grown up way
Yes we have all but wielded our day, we have much left to do from now and onward still,
We have pieces to compose, writings to write and we have only started to paint the places we fill.

Writing the day, the givings of the week, the givings of a day, at 3.25,
And a long way from sleep, from dreams I call home and my eyes are open wide
I would often listen to the song that plays on the radio, and is on endless repeat,
The beauty, the melody and the lyrics of the song, or are we simply not listening to the beats

It was warm on this cold winter day, even the messed up bits seemed right,
For now I am composing a song that I have yet to sing, for now I simply write,
Dance to the tune you cannot find, it exists in more places than only your mind,
Find that bit of courage, that extra luck, that hope that follows you even at 3.25.