Always waiting for the sun to rise.
Constantly waiting to know what the night have in store for me.
Only at night the days become wicked.
When it's dark out they start to haunt.
A blank paper on the table, a pen somewhere near by, and open bottles to help convince myself.
The day is always promise.
The night is full of uncertainty.
My thoughts are unstable and my soul wants to escape.
My hands wants to write another poetry to express my deepest desire.
If I fail again, in the future I may have to spin the revolver around.
Or my friend who's only warm to me when she's in use.
But right now the sun is coming up and this sad night is finally over.
I have to live another day.