Late night Poetry, the kind you forget by morning.
Late night Poetry, the ones that never end.

The late nights at five in the morning, the light of my laptop mixes in with the actual bright light of the next day.
The late nights with the heavy thoughts that rest upon my shoulders, crushing me against the bed.

When truly I'd rather be crushed against the bed in another way, more ****** innuendos then the biggest '****' could count.
When truly we shouldn't ever judge anyone by the number of times they think or even had ***.

Just another cliche for depression that I bury in my ****** desires, for something that feels good rather than feeling empty.
Just another empty night, empty dreams, empty bed.

Even though it feels good it leaves me empty anyways