Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

Circadian rhythms shot to hell,
The little bastard of a gnome that is sleep
Avoided me tonight, but tomorrow's new,
Till then just wasting time, might as well

And left alone, my thoughts begin to turn on me,
Convinced that daylight impairs cognition,
And that the sweet, sweet moon enhances,
My genius hypothothesis and my unwilling inquiry

And so tonight, solitary, I stay,
Waiting for the sun to cruelly rip others
Into my miserable realm, the conscious,
But tomorrow, Bastard Gnome, you shall pay