Not under midnight, not over morning,
Under a roof, as it seems to be.
Theoretically flailing words in a keyboard,
Sitting within four concrete walls.
Blotting out nonsense,
On hopes of creating sense.
Laminating ideas in invisible walls,
Thoughts thought to be relevant,
Stapled to nothing, becoming nothing.
Alluring ideas of randomness,
Netting creativity away,
Dancing in no rhythm.
Closed is not my mind,
Or the thoughts that come in,
Gyrating is my head,
Spinning weaves of cluttered madness.