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I can only write at night,

Or under the influence.

Because at any other time,

I know what’s real to well.

Under the influence of liquor.

You are given a free pass to exaggerate,

And make up your own little stories.

When you are lying in bed,

And the room is spinning.

You can dream and wish all you want.

And dream about anything in the universe.

No one will tell a drunk person they are wrong.

Because they want them to be happy,

In there own little fucked up world.

And at night everything is dark and nothing is real.

You can barely make out the shadows,

And You must imagine the rest.

And when you are sitting on your porch,

Smoking packs.

No one is there to stop your mind.

Everything is real in the world of writing.

No one can tell you your feelings aren’t valid.

So I will write until the sun rises,

And the world is real again.