half-baked

the abandoned of 3am dont like matching things or symmetry. just want a hand to hold a sigh on her hair. says words are just arbitrary there. there, there, words are just fillings in a chilly sky thats grinning like a madman loosed and fighting the lion in the back of his mind. the mind is just a cradle, there, there, put all your hopes and dreams in before you rock yourself to sleep. and hope those things have transformed by daybreak, cause they dont match the morning, dissipate before im stretching and yawning. dawn is the last friend you make each night. it takes the last punch of your cowardly fight, hushes theres no lions, no bears, no madman, its just me, the morning, no different than the night. at 3am, words are just crafts. they're superstitious about the night in the daylight and the daylight in the night.