Midnight Society Of Wayward Dreamers

Welcome to the Midnight Society Of Wayward Dreamers;
It converges nightly on the tongue of those who mumble in their sleep.
Of those who mutter half-written poetry
When they're too tired to hold a pen anymore
When they're too overwhelmed by words to stop composing.
It is the place where you go in the middle of the night
When everything else is dead silent.
Except for the tapping of keys
Or that faint scratch of pen or pencil against page.
It is where everyone who calls themselves a writer has been.
And even the odd 'civilian' who doesn't spit ink and bleed words
Drops in from time to time.
To marvel in the presence of night and dreams
And perhaps toddle back to the real world,
And scratch down a short little poem
About the Midnight Society Of Wayward Dreamers
A Poetic civilian, like me.

To The Boy

Author's Comment: This was written a few nights ago, December 23, 2009 at 2:34 AM

It's two thirty in the fucking morning.
I can't sleep.
And I can only focus on two things.
This page, and you.
Poetry, and You.
Or, poetry about you?
You In the form of poetry?
In graying graphite letters,
as insignificant as me,
but as world-shattering as you.
I couldn't possibly tell you,
how wonderful you are,
and how terrifying,
how mollifying, what you make me feel.
(or not feel, depending on the day)
not to your face, anyway.
and It's insane. I try, and I try
to convince myself that we're
"Just friends"
and I'm the one that's so scared of love
I'll say "It dosen't exist"
Defend it's non existence
then turn around, and write a poem
about how you make me feel it.
at two thirty in the morning.
I can't stop thinking about you.
Maybe all this poetry is getting to my head.
Or maybe
(No, surely.)
You are.

In Search Of An Idea

I have walked the hallowed halls of thought
As silent as a grave
and wondered as I passed the many doors
What was inside, and dare I dream
about what would happen
were I to pry them open?
Would my mind explode
with the wonder of it?
And cause itself to go mad
(For no one must know
how they work, it would
spoil the ending for us all)
Or would I, instead, become
enlightened, and stop worrying
about this and that and give in
to what I had seen, of the past
of the now, and what is yet to be.
Maybe though, I'd see nothing.
And my life it would not change.
maybe instead, I'd go on.
Just as I am.
and never wonder
again.