Midnight Oil

Burn me, midnight oil

Into the night

Beacon of my might

Fight or flight

Delight or plight

And then I stop myself and stop you reading because we've both realised that it's rhyming and though the words do make any sort of sense cannot represent the same reality and depth of what I'm feeling because rhyming should just be a happy or unhappy (??) coincidence, for cryin' out loud we're not superstitious nor do we believe in ghosts, and these sharp turns are what makes my supposed poetry something that's worth reading if you're into this very specific kind of writing that takes notes from no one at the same time that it takes notes from pretty much everyone

Yet all I know, all I know

Is that there's no easy fix

That's how my mind wanders and how it wonders, and that's a repeated reference that ties my writing together; I'm not even being presumptuous because there IS a writing that I've done, which doesn't entail deeper significance or an evaluation of its quality by that single assertion -- yet when I look up at the words I've written before I'll identify that I'm just writing by the same formula hence will stop before I became repetitious

Insidious

Another word that I've learnt by reading a lot of books

The same goes for the patterns of the words I write that write who I am

(That's another circular reference, if you have the patience to find it)

O Midnight Oil... Oh!, Midnight Oil

You burn me at unseemly hours

Which I won't disdain