I am not a morning person.
I am not a man built for the sunrise,
unless said sunrise is rising sullenly over the ridge
on the culmination of a long summer's eve.

This is not something that
One
      Should
            Necessarily
                       ­  Lament
When considering the fact that
Mostpoliticaladvancementisdoneintheweehours.

The hours of night beckon unceasingly.
Time well spent in the company of Erebos.
In a world where neon seems to burn with the brilliance of hydrogen,
A confundation of chemistry comparable to my every interaction.

Yet I find myself yearning for the age
That I fall asleep on the same day in which I woke.

These blocks are thick

I cannot see through

Tip o' the tongue

Far from the eye



Oh! But then begins
flourishing thoughts
like a...
             like a...
                          like a...

I find solace
In that thoughts are imaginary
Fever dreams
Nothing much to them
Until you act

That line that exists
Between your mind's tellings
And your mouth's doings
Is a beautiful thing
It's what I hang my hat on each day

And then there's that thing

Life
It's a weird one
An old, odd friend
Who you don't know whether to kiss
Or to lure into a back alley
Intent on cutting their belly open
To see what falls out

I just can't think straight
There's nothing to write
I know I wasn't great
But something's gotta give
My hands just won't move
Like my brain's feeling thin
But that's no excuse
I need something new