I know it's actually 4:35 am, rather than 3 am, but Sylvia Plath is still my favorite poet. Nobody else can nail my feelings quite like she manages to
Monologue at 3 am
Better that every fiber crack
and fury make head,
blood drenching vivid
couch, carpet, floor
and the snake-figured almanac
vouching you are
a million green counties from here,
than to sit mute, twitching so
under prickling stars,
with stare, with curse
blackening the time
goodbyes were said, trains let go,
and I, great magnanimous fool, thus wrenched from
my one kingdom.
~Sylvia Plath
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