It's fucking 3 in the damned morning,
a twisted mind trying to write,
the most flawed paper known to man.
While the well established sleep,
so somberly on their egyptian silk sheets.
I want to rip these sleeper's vocal chords out,
so that in the morning,
only my voice will be heard.
In this perfect fucking paper,
with it's perfect fucking footnotes
and its not so perfect creator,
hopped up on caffeine,
ready to be the perfect fucking innovator,
of another person's shitty ideas.
Why does it feel so excruciating?
In the middle of the night.
I've already taken flight, but can't seem to stop looking back.
What is going on?
Romance is dead,
love has fled,
lust is just,
these lonely souls
that take the melancholy stroll.
Our hearts in a turmoil,
what do we do with these echoes
that growls and grumbles?
In the early morning wisps of smoke,
those endearing midnight strokes.
Where we find ourselves;
alone, drinking out of the bliss canteen.
The white on the vanilla is off;
as if the brown got sucked out of the chocolate.
You leave me with a bitter aftertaste;
yet, I want you even more.
Although you think you know;
I'd like to bet you don't.
I'm a little off,
in case you haven't noticed.