Poetry from 5 AM This Morning by Powers '23

This girl is tired. Verrryyyyyyy tired.

I had a lot of ideas for what I wanted to post this weekend. A month into my time at MIT I can finally say I’ve drunk from the firehose and tasted it vicious glory; there’s plenty I could say! And I will say those things eventually, but this past week has been a wild ride. To quantify it:

• Five hours of sleep per night, on average
• Four birthdays on my dorm hall (one of them was mine!)
• Three big-boy exams/midterms
• Two existential crisis
• One visitor from home!

All of this amazing and terrible chaos culminated in me sitting in my hall’s kitchen at five AM this morning, trying to study for a test I had today and failing pretty miserably. So, for the sake of my sanity, I diverted my attention and ended up writing poetry! I used to do this all the time, but as senior year of high school got busy and other interests took hold, I kind of dropped it. Maybe the exhaustion kickstarted my creative energy?

The nice thing is that I don’t really care if it’s good or not. I did it. It felt nice to throw caution to the wind and just do it. After all of last week’s craziness, watching the sun rise with toast in one hand and a pen in the other made me feel human again. It probably hurt me during my test, but I’m okay with that.

I literally don’t have the mental capacity to do any other post besides this one. Not right now. So here’s my poem.

5 AM

Dark skies and dripping sinks,

Dirty kitchen counters, 

Hours inhabited by worn faces from the sun’s setting until it’s dawn.

I yawn over beat-up mugs, 

Mismatched and attached to rusty hooks on the wall.

I yawn between speckles of sleep.

When I stare into the deep of a clogged garbage disposal 

I believe the age-old tale,

That owning pieces of the world pales in comparison

To having a piece of the world own you. 

Fluorescent light;

Eyes bright and sometimes bleary.

“The Other Side”;

A smile wide and muscles weary.

Hazy air;

A heart prone to tear, so clearly 

Held all too captive for its own good.

In what remains old reverence blooms.

In forgotten faith, 

In run-down rooms.