Late at Night. 2am

Late night, 2am. 
Lying here, awake in bed. 
Not sure of the point in making this post
Or what it is even supposed to be.
But thoughts are swirling in my head

Swirling, such a cliched word
Used always in poetry and literary
fiction. I guess that's all it is
Real thoughts, turned fictional
by fancy words and spacing

Truly, what is poetry.
An art form to be studied and disected
Or words on a page that can invoke feeling

The written word version of Matisse art
your five year old could do better.
Maybe. 
Maybe it's not as serious

Maybe we think of poets
as damaged artists
fragile, and trying so hard to cling to their artsiness

Or maybe we know this is all random shit
in our heads
with no real meaning to when we hit
enter

Sure, there's some thoughts and emotions behind it
but all we're truly doing is hiding behind it.
We seem like we use these words to scream for help
but secretly, we don't want you to know
not fully

As I write, I question the point
Why am I writing?
What am I writing?

Sometimes, you just write because it feels right,
at late night, 2am.