Am I More of a Night or Morning Person?: A Poetic Exploration and Conclusion of Time and My Identity #DailyPrompt2140

Night? Morning?
(a dialogue between shadows and sunlight)

you ask—
as if I were a bird,
fixed in flight, wings frozen
by the pendulum's sweep.

Am I the night?
velvet dark,
draped in whispers that only moths hear,
a mirror for fears too shy for the sun,
where stars play hopscotch
with the edges of my vision
and dreams melt into liquid maps
of nowhere?

or,
am I the morning?
a golden slap across the face of sleep,
the world smelling of coffee and contradictions,
where light crashes through windows like an uninvited guest,
spilling over the floor,
pooling into puddles I step through
half-awake, half-reborn.

but what is this—
this splitting of selves?
this razor between hours
that tries to name me one thing,
or another.

do you see my face?
half-cast in shadow, half-drenched in glow.
am I not dusk? am I not dawn?
a twilight soup,
a concoction brewed by clouds who can’t decide
if they prefer to swallow or spit the sun.

call me the storm
that erupts at 3:12 a.m.,
when clocks have no teeth to bite time
and humans are too tired to cage themselves
in names like “night owl” or “early bird.”

call me the quiet
of a library waiting to yawn awake at sunrise,
or the echo of footsteps
on a sidewalk
where streetlights whisper their last goodbyes to darkness.

the moon
whispers to the sun:
“we are not opposites.
we are lovers who
pass notes across the sky.”

and I,
I am the ink,
sprawling between the lines
of their endless letters.

so I ask you back:
are you the question,
or the answer?

The Answer, in Shattered Echoes

I was born in the in-between—
not the beginning, not the end.
A spark,
too shy to announce itself
in the blaze of day
or hide in the folds of night.

Do you hear it?
The silence I wear as skin?
It’s not morning, it’s not evening—
it’s this strange moment
where both collide,
a symphony of dust
settling between thoughts,
pulsing like the space
between heartbeats.

Yes, I know what you mean.
The stars don’t give up their secrets so easily.
The moon winks at me,
teasing me with half-formed truths,
the same ones the sun whispers to the earth,
but we are not their children,
we are their thieves.
We steal what we cannot hold,
collect the fragments of time like glass beads,
but none of them fit.

Night and morning?
Two sides of the same coin—
they trade places but never let us forget
they were born from the same breath,
the same forgotten sigh.
You speak of them as opposites—
but do you hear how the silence hums
with their blended song?
The twilight loves neither
but carries both,
like water held in the curve of a palm,
dripping through the cracks in the skin.

I am not one,
nor the other,
but I am both.
A world that shatters and rebuilds itself
each second,
caught in the loop
of infinity and nothingness.

I am that 3:12 a.m. storm,
where thoughts break their chains,
and the clock has no reason to exist.
I am the library left behind by a forgotten reader,
pages turning in the dust,
waiting for someone who doesn’t need to read.
The light spills in,
but it’s already too late—
the room has already lived
through a thousand suns,
a thousand nights.

Do you think the dawn cares
whether you wake to meet it?
It doesn’t need you.
And the night?
It is the secret the dawn can never steal.
It knows things—
old things,
things the sun has forgotten.

I am a forgotten song
sung to the rhythm of stars
that no one remembers.
I am not the answer,
not even the question—
I am the space between them,
the breath between every word.

So ask me again—
but this time, don’t expect an answer.
I don’t belong to the clock,
nor to the sun,
nor to the moon.
I belong to the pause,
the space where everything waits
and nothing ever happens.
And in that waiting,
I am free.

#Poetry #CreativeWriting #TimeAndIdentity #NightOrMorning #AbstractPoetry #ModernPoetry #PoeticExploration #WritersOfInstagram #SpokenWordPoetry #LiteraryArt