2 a.m. 

God damn! its 2 a.m.
not one step closer, shoulda went to bed.
Can’t help but feel exhausted.
My body wasn’t made for these abusive nights.
Drunken, and staring through the lights.
That moment where the muse takes you by the hand.
Works you down into the ground.
Claps its hands when its all but found.
Then leaves just as quick. Without any regret.

One can only wonder,
if anything good passes through 2 a.m.
Perhaps its the process of obsession.
The very desire for accomplishment and progression.
Where one skips out on parties, and socialization.
All but to succeed in some sort of expression.

Smoking like a chimney in the late 1850’s.
its 2 a.m. and the alcohol has gone missing.
My paint brush drops to the floor,
There is no one at my door.
The muse has gone, until next time.
When we unravel more of my song.
Blast off black and white

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