As of Late

I find myself writing at two and three a.m. some mornings, and it seems to be the only time I feel alive, so because I haven't posted here in ages, I'll put a few of my products of late-night writing sprees on:

(Self titled)
Here's to you.
Here's to everything you showed me.
All of the love, all of the madness.
Here's to the things you never could share.
Here's to the drunken nights, the only time I saw you.
The wonderful feelings you gave me.
Here's to the walks under the stars.
Here's to the gin and sprite.
You never did plan on staying.
Here's to cheap wine and cigarettes. The way you always smelled.
Here's to your instability.
The trust never could be given.
Here's to Fire and Rain.
Here's to the first time and the last.
All of your clever words.
Here's to you.

(Un)Settling
It seems I settle for unstable, bumbling, moronic sociopaths. The one time I don't settle, I can't let myself go. Not completely. I think sometimes people see themselves in a very dark light. They believe they are undeserving of anything good. Possibly because of past transgressions, possibly because of low self-esteem. I'm there. I can't, I won't let myself go. Maybe for fear of something great happening in my life. How can a person fear good things? Simple: good things never last.

Only Here
It's three a.m., and I'm writing. My mind is alive. It always sparks in the early mornings. I find myself thinking far too much at this time while I should be motionless and quiet in my tiny twin-sized bed. I want to be constructive. Now. I want to stretch my fingers across piano keys in search of the perfect sound the hammers make as they bounce on the strings, or feel the smooth cripsness of blank paper and the stability of a pen, beneath my skin. Three a.m. The only time I see things; the only time I really listen.