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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I have, at this ungodly hour,
Been jolted awake,
By an insatiable urge to write.
Which I blame solely on the pages I did devour
Of a book that was stuck in my hands till midnight.
However, now I find myself in the devastating position,
Of having been blasted from my bed,
With both purpose and precision.
And now with 101 keys
Laid out in front of me...
Have not one word to put to paper.

Similar to most things
That occur in the small hours of the morning,
My brain struggles as my eyes sting
To form some sort of objective to this premature awakening.

Unfortunately, scowling at the silver light
The moon is so inconsiderately filtering through my window,
Illuminating the room nice and bright,
And assuring me that the only shadows
Are the ones that'll be under my eyes come morning.
Is not exactly good material
For some sublime assemblage of literary magnificence.
That said,
It seems that in true teenage style
My thoughts are going to make themselves known
With little to nothing to stem their flow.

I'm guessing that this semi-productive
Yet mostly pointless 3am exercise,
Is some cruel and unadvertised
Side effect to being poetically inclined.
While painting with words is...
What those who favor religion may call divine,
I would starkly remark to any
That 3am feverish insomnia,
Which may as well be insanity
Is something given the choice I would rather decline.

Especially given the fact
That in these cursed dark hours,
My impaired brain can't keep track
Of any word I write leaving my poetry sour,
Unstructured and inconsistent in both style and rhythm.
Still I dare not stem this unwarranted surge
Of adjectives, nouns and tumbling verbs,
Just in case in the wreckage of the page
That my words laid waste to
I find some salvageable treasure
That unlike me will last forever.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

I have, at this ungodly hour,
Been jolted awake,
By an insatiable urge to write.
Which I blame solely on the pages I did devour
Of a book that was stuck in my hands till midnight.
However, now I find myself in the devastating position,
Of having been blasted from my bed,
With both purpose and precision.
And now with 101 keys
Laid out in front of me...
Have not one word to put to paper.

Similar to most things
That occur in the small hours of the morning,
My brain struggles as my eyes sting
To form some sort of objective to this premature awakening.

Unfortunately, scowling at the silver light
The moon is so inconsiderately filtering through my window,
Illuminating the room nice and bright,
And assuring me that the only shadows
Are the ones that'll be under my eyes come morning.
Is not exactly good material
For some sublime assemblage of literary magnificence.
That said,
It seems that in true teenage style
My thoughts are going to make themselves known
With little to nothing to stem their flow.

I'm guessing that this semi-productive
Yet mostly pointless 3am exercise,
Is some cruel and unadvertised
Side effect to being poetically inclined.
While painting with words is...
What those who favor religion may call divine,
I would starkly remark to any
That 3am feverish insomnia,
Which may as well be insanity
Is something given the choice I would rather decline.

Especially given the fact
That in these cursed dark hours,
My impaired brain can't keep track
Of any word I write leaving my poetry sour,
Unstructured and inconsistent in both style and rhythm.
Still I dare not stem this unwarranted surge
Of adjectives, nouns and tumbling verbs,
Just in case in the wreckage of the page
That my words laid waste to
I find some salvageable treasure
That unlike me will last forever.