Too late for attempted wit. Too early to write.

It's 10 past 1 in the morning. Today has been fairly awful - if not just a screwed-up mess, emotional 'stuff' (is there no end to my linguistic skills?!), and being that I have some pointless Maths revision class to attend tommorow, it may be wise to consider sleeping. From the obscenely large coffee I had today, I'm not quite feeling 'tired' but hints of it are slipping through. The obscenely large yawn I just pulled then, for instance. By the way, if you can - try 'obtaining' "Existential blues". I think it's by 'Tom 't-bone' stankus'. Extremely trippy on headphones. I retract that. Just - extremely trippy.
Anyway, more pointless poetry. The writing site I tend to post on didn't exactly give the most awesome feedback (not that I have an ego-complex, ahem), but I'm feeling sadistic enough to post it for your eyes. 'Tis called "Kissing your hair"

Kissing your hair,
Rosy felt with sleek,
Curling – no, but highways of silk,
Lapping voluptuous,
Scenting content,
We lay there,
Bathing in eyes,
Kissing in skin,
And in sanctity – it was cast,
To a memory past,
‘Till I’m kissing your hair again

Well, sayonara. The walls are starting to try and strike up conversation. This is a classic example of the beautiful 'Sleep deprevation'.
Like I said, Sayonara.

Edit: Is there anyone that actually reads any of this? I've got this 1:37AM sinking feeling that I'm chatting to myself, which (last time I checked) was one of the first signs of madness. Nevertheless, I appreciate that on your cyber-journeys, my posts of pretentiousness aren't painfully gripping, but feel free (hint) to (double hint) leave (triple hint) a comment.