Thursday at 3

I struggle to write
These elusive expressions
In the blank white sheets.
You taught me a language
But I only picked up sounds.

My rhymes are not sexy
My words fail the rules
But how can I not not write
This distortion within feelings
And a path that tips you
Over and over again.

And so I dare
For you to trace the invisibles
Inside me I wish you numbed
In jitters then the pains
And you did not see the obvious
Of my fear of not knowing
The rules, the rhymes.

Thursday at 3, I break in
As your world sleeps
With the empty whiskey bottles.
I find a little freedom
As I search for the leftovers
I begin to discover
A piece of my heart
Neither a poetry
Nor a prose!