“It’s 2AM”

“It’s 2AM”

“It’s 2AM” 

It’s 2am, deep in the middle of night, 

I’m still at the bar, sitting at the counter,  

Holding a glass of whiskey in hand, 

The world outside quiet and dark but my mind a roaring storm, 

Drowning in worries, choking on thoughts with no clear plans after here. 

Faces blur around me, laughter mingles with smoke, 

But I sit here alone, worrisome, burdened by the yoke. 

Work deadlines missed, bills piling high, 

The fear of failure whispering, as I silently cry. 

Responsibilities press a weight I can’t lift, 

In the haze of the bar, I seek a brief rift, so I think, 

From the endless viscous cycle of demands now piling into stress, 

But solace evades me, leaving me breathless and gasping. 

Each sip of whiskey burns my throat, a fleeting distraction, 

But the pressure within still wells, still a relentless contraction. 

The expectations of life, society’s demands, 

I carry them all with trembling hands. 

I think of my children, asleep at home, 

Needing my guidance but I’m empty, what can I give? 

The guilt of not being enough shreds me to pieces. 

Colleagues expect perfection, friends demand time, 

But my energy’s drained, I’m past my prime. 

The juggling act of roles, I can’t maintain, 

In the drunk hours of 2am, I feel the strain. 

As I sip my whiskey, thoughts race unchecked, a relentless parade, 

Of what-ifs and how abouts and should-haves,  

The choices I made, the choices I never made with 

The fear of failure, a constant companion. 

Men keep approaching, here at the counter,  

While I sip my whiskey to whisk me away, 

With words, with sweet words, with kind words, 

But not today, I’m trapped in my mind. 

Consumed by worries, too many to name, 

As I’ll leave the bar alone, unchanged, the same. 

I fear this place becoming my nightly retreat, 

A habit forming, one I dread to repeat. 

Seeking solace in whiskey, a dangerous game, 

In the depths of 2am, It’s a shame, is it not? 

The bartender glances, a look of concern, 

But words elude him as he pours another round into my glass. 

My insides churn. I want to go home 

But I’m lost in the rounds, can’t see my way out, 

I want to drink myself out of the maze  

Of the weight of expectations and society’s game, 

Perhaps I will crumble no more inside, 

Perhaps I will stop falling apart. 

As dawn approaches and the night starts to fade, 

I realize that my battles can’t be quieted even in bottles. 

So, it’s me, me alone, 

Facing my fears, my failures, my own. 

EzroniX Poetry.