12:55

Midnight’s behind me, it’s 12:55,
And I’m shrouded in darkness, they’ve switched off the lights,
Leaving the poetess alone, her sorry, to type,
So my fingers advance, continuing to rhyme.

It’s 12:55, friend, an unearthly hour,
But I resume writing, sitting alone, here,
Hoping that one day, you’ll understand the effort it takes me to write,
Another one of my sorries, at 12:55.

It’s 12:55, friend, and my eyes are slightly red,
They’re aching, for sleep, they quietly beg,
Because I’ve been building your sorry since morning,
And all my wild tendencies, for you, I have disciplined.

Now, do you know how sorry I am?
Now do you realize, that all is not fine?
I never put quarrels behind me,
Because that’s the sort of friend I wish to be.

Maybe I’m insane, maybe I am a little too paranoid,
But then, know that my silent effort is sincere,
Will it take more than a 100 poems to make you forgive me?
Even, after 100 times, I repeat my pleas?

It’s 12:55, neither day nor night,
I wish for you to know, that I have stayed back,
To write this sorry for you, at 12:55,
I have gone against my better instinct, for you, I have rhymed even with sleep-deprived eyes….


At 12:55