After Midnight

It's late again
yesterday it was so late it was early
Today I thought it would be fine
but I'm still awake, so I guess it isn't
The words pile up all day
and then force themselves out
in ways I don't mind
but at times I'd rather they didn't

High on a shelf
Piled up
I reach up and grab them
And they fall
Can I make sense of them
I pick them up
And my mind shuffles
The words

The next night is the same
and the night after that
five minutes past twelve
ten, twenty, fourty, an hour
who would have thought
that being unhealthy and stupid
could be so addictive?

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.