Hey, I finished this poem at 4:20 in the morning in some coffee shop off campus. (and immediately went to celebrate, although I was pretty baked when I wrote it anyway). I decided to post it here to get some criticism, so anything you wanna say, go ahead, and thanks. A couple talks, I lean and listen, they discuss life and television. They pour their voice into the void, that place between point of view and this point in time. These are the restless souls and exhausted bodies that drink from the cup of caffeine and curiosity, and dip their feet into the scalding water that dares them to take a dive. Another girl sits alone, her eyes scanning chemistry, but secretly praying to look away. To her, we are atoms, nothing more then the black and white pages of biology, but every day she waits and prays that somewhere very far away the truth of life exists in shades of gray. science always drives away the spirits of our ghosts, leaving only the skeleton of ourselves. when this fantasy dies, she falls in love with the cut-and-dry, this lullaby that numbs the mind, allowing the children of science to sleep. Then, there's the riddle-ridden poet, who envies others' tragedies, knowing that pain could inspire the pen to create the words he worries he may never write. His life reads like middle road, he has no story to be told, his body aches with no-where to go, and as long as he's got nothing to show he can never go to sleep. We burn brighter and hotter and escaping sleep for a couple hours. This nocturnal immortatily is, in fact, temporary, but we are hypnotized by the fireplace theater, and we hypothosize in rhyme and meter, and to sleep is to slip from our burning urge to linger and live with this moonlight fever.