At two in the morning,

the chest lets you know that you’ve had enough

and that all that you accomplished so far,

the squiggles of indecisive word play foreplay,

the slight chuckle of flirtation with a new sexy

phrase dressed in glimmering ball gown

and the jealous, seething, rage of an old favourite

as it gets dropped in its favour

for a single novel line,

all that you written and fought for in the darkness

means nothing,

not a damn thing as all turns grey before your eyes