It’s midnight,
And your soul cries out to be set free.
Poured out onto the page in a never-ending stream of consciousness;
No editing.
No rewrites.
Just let it loose.

It’s midnight,
And no one you’ve ever heard of is playing on the radio,
Singing songs you want to sing,
About feelings,
and ideas,
and men and women,
life, the universe, and everything else.

It’s midnight,
And you should be asleep.
But your muse just elbowed you in the ribs,
and told you to stop hogging all the covers you lazy bum.
What have you done lately?
What do you have to show for all that I’ve given you?
Do you think I do this for my own benefit?
The long nights,
the heartache,
stimulants so you can finish what you’re working on,
depressants because you’re done but can’t get to sleep.
I do it all for you.

It’s midnight,
And the spirit of Jack Kerouac hovers in the air;
Commanding respect,
demanding thought,
craving outlet.
The cars rush by on the way to freedom,
but they don’t realize.
They don’t know that they are already where they want to be.
One place is as good as the next.
But the gold is in the rainbow,
and the only way to get it, is to crank her over, shove her in gear, and ride the way.
The Way.
Life is not a destination.
It’s a journey.
And you know this, but you can’t set it free.
You haven’t the strength to set loose your soul,
after all it is midnight...
Why do you wait for midnight to start your journey?
What makes you think you haven’t already?

It’s midnight,
And you’ve begun to question your sanity...
again.
And your typing skills.
You’re glad you don’t have anywhere to go,
‘cause you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t get there.
But you know that you really are going somewhere,
just a bit slower now,
but oddly enough, with more progress,
despite poor typing skills and strained train of thought.

It’s midnight,
And you’re not sure where this is all going.
You seem to recall having something in mind but that is far gone now,
maybe you’ll get there in the sequel,
or the after-life,
whichever comes first.
But that only matters if you think of time as a line...
what makes you think that you’re moving?
What makes you think that all that crap you call memories isn’t really just a pretty picture that is stuck in the mind of a statue?
Descartes really didn’t give that enough thought...
You’d be willing to correct that error,
if you could just find a pen,
or yourself.
But if you really knew who you were, you wouldn’t be here.
No, you’d be beyond this illusion,
for that is what this... reality is.
Samsara, baby. That’s what it is.
You’re in Mara’s hands now.
Are you really thinking this,
or do you only believe you’re thinking this?
Are you sure I’m not thinking this for you?
Did you forget who was writing the poem?
I did.
But what’s the difference between you and me anyway?
I don’t know, all I know is that I’m not you.
But maybe that’s the problem,
maybe that’s my illusion.
Maybe we’re all the same,
why not?
Maybe there is only one god.
Maybe all the others are just little schizo-gods who don’t realize that they’re all the same.
Why does there have to be a difference between light and dark?
For nothing can be understood except in relation to other things.
So nothing is understood, it’s all just illusion.
Buddha was right, just let it go.
Illusions are what hold you here.

It’s midnight,
And while the radio gods croon about how depressed they are that they’re not happy anymore,
your head spins,
and you really wish you hadn’t heard this poem,
but it’s too late.
And you know that there is no depression without happiness,
though you should have stated that the other way around,
but it’s all the same anyways.
Besides, language is pretty much crap ever since Babel.
God is a bastard, if there is one.
Why do we all have to speak different languages,
whatever happened to the language of man?
Enochian is the way man,
the true language,
the language of the angels,
the language of the mind,
the language of the universe.
If you could speak to the universe, what do you think it would say?
Would it ignore you, or would it reveal it’s secrets?
Probably not, after all, lots of people have spoken to me, and I don’t tell them shit.
But it is the universe after all, not some twenty year-old piglet, philosophy major.
Which means that it has more important things to worry about than what you think of it,
so maybe it would tell you.
But it also has more important things to do than listen to some loser that hangs out with poets.
Of course, the universe includes poets,
so when you talk to a poet you are talking to the universe.

It’s midnight,
And I’m a poet.
You are listening to the universe here so pay attention.
And give me money.
Of course if I’m the universe, then I already have all your money.
But I like to keep it together, so give it to me anyway.
I’m into being heterogeneous.
And heterosexual.
But that’s a different poem altogether.
Unless you want to talk about Shiva.
But I don’t.
And I’m the universe, so what I say, goes.
The universe rests.

Snagged this title from a song by Big Head Todd and The Monsters (Don't let the name fool you). Maybe some other stuff from some other people, but I was tired then, and I'm tired now, so if you find it just pretend I gave credit (Or e-mail me)