PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It's five twenty-three, and my cold, empty sheets
Try not to remind me, I'm back down to me
Five twenty-four, dead bolt's on the door
T-shirts and blue jeans, strewn through the floor

There's frost on my windows, November, no snow
Saturday morning, numb and alone

And by five twenty-eight, I'll be going insane
Wishing I had something solid to blame
And by five thirty-two, I'll be crying for you
Clutching our pictures, and painting us blue...
Wishing we'd go back,
To five twenty-two

It's five twenty-five, half dead, still alive
Hollow and empty, re-living last night
Five twenty-six, and my stomach is sick
Don't know if I'll see that old blue Jeep again
There's ice on my windshield, November, no snow
Saturday morning, so stupid, I know

Cuz by five twenty-eight, I'll be going insane
Tearing my hair out, cursing your name
And by five thirty-two, I'll be dying for you
Torching our pictures, and burning us through...
Wishing we'd go back,
To five twenty-two

At five fifteen, we were floating in dreams
Trying to fight, the alarm's horrid scream
Now it's five twenty-seven, alone in my bed and
By five twenty-eight, I'll be
Going
Insane...