The Ramblings of a Man in the Middle of the Night


Here I sit in a dusty old attic,

My skin cooled by a rolling breeze.

Around me is the loudest silence

Created by them, the people

Who tell me I shouldn't drive.

1:05 AM. I sit and I write.


They don't ask me why I write,

Those people in the attic.

I jot down that I would like to drive

With the wind rolling past, the breeze

Leading me away from the people.

1:28 AM. All I hear is silence.


Then away it goes, the silence

Fades as I fail to write

About the people

Inside of that old attic.

As I sit, in rolls the breeze.

2:01 AM. I let my hand begin to drive.


I begin to realize I have no drive,

My passion an echoing silence,

My interests the fickle breeze.

Still I sit and I write

Inside of this dusty attic.

2:57 AM. I can still hear people.


They can't hear me, the people,

the ones who said I shouldn't drive.

They're sitting in the attic,

and still I hear the silence

Which is forcing me to write.

3:04 AM. I feel a cool breeze.


I can no longer feel the breeze.

They can't see me, the people,

As I am bent double, unable to write.

They are no longer there to say I can't drive.

It fades from me, the cacophonous silence.

3:36 AM. I am leaving the attic.


I walk through the breeze. I start to drive.

The people are left with nothing but silence,

As they see what I write in a dusty old attic.

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