Maybe I am doomed,
To writing midnight poetry,
Alone in dark rooms.
As before,
So now.
Circles of life,
Repeating ad nauseam.
Sick of this repetition.
Playing at Robin Williams,
What would my teenage self think,
So dark,
Wrathful,
Full of angst?
Grandiosity –
Bleeds.
Dies.
Midnight Poetry.
