It's rounding three-forty in the morning
And my reason for sleep is tugging at me like
Gravity to everything

Or a late-night host absolutely convinced
His guest is wittier than himself
And pulling the curtains as if to say "I've failed you"

Really, the only continuity here is the drumming purr,
Outsourced by the shuffling footsteps opposite my door
Of which I am deathly afraid

If they knew what I really did in here
And at this time of night?
Can't even think about it

"Probably *******" they would chortle
Shaking their heads in disappointment over my
Weakness of mind and overall
Failure to hide the sound of skin

But there are better things to do, are being done
Like paper poetry, terrible fortune cookie words
Stitched blindly so to sound nice
To feign significance
But there are better things to do