We stay up all night,

No work gets done.

We wake up to the sound of a broken air conditioner,

We go to class or some crappy part time job.

Parents say we have to make something of ourselves.

So we all come home to the humming of the A.C and the static of the T.V.

Flopping on our couch, or chair, or even the old crummy stoop,

The days are just passing by.

Over in the next in the next room a painter is at work,

Paint splashing over the clean white canvas can be heard through these supposedly sound proof walls.

We don’t care, we have an 8am tomorrow, and we have no work.

We’re Fucked.

We stare out our windows; listen to the sounds of the city, or the country.

We feel the energy of the world more than any one that came before.

Our papers are blank and we just gaze out at of our clear or dirtied window.

We know what’s out there,

The clock chimes and it’s our time,

Our ideas are alive and so are we,

We stay up all night, we dream with open eyes.

The clock chimes over and over, and the embers turn to fire.

We stay up all night,

No work gets done,

But a story is written.

© 2012 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#poetry