4a.m. rhymes

The air feels moist,
My breathing goes heavy,
Fingers are unsteady,
And I'm not ready.

The air gets thick,
Making me sick,
Feels like a dick,
Working for this prick.

It gets on my hands,
It gets on my clothes,
It even sticks to my freaking toes.

My skin is polluted,
My lungs are burnt,
Is there no end;
To this mindless hurt?

It tarnishes my soul,
It dampens my spirit,
There ain't no words;
that could fucking explain it.

Foams, foams, foams,
Blue friggin' foams,
Through every square inch,
Of the room it roams.

Caught some in my eye, GOD DAMNIT, MY EYE!
It hurts pretty bad. Being blind can be sad.

And yet I sculpt,
Polish and gloss,
Make it perfect,
And wow my boss.

Be better than the best, never settle for less.

It's worth more than precious rest.

But the sickest thing of all,
Is that I'm having a ball,
Even if my breakfast;
is taken at nightfall

I do what I love,
I love what I do!

Nothing beats this wonderful affection,
Nothing else matters; only perfection.

In PerfecTion,
Only 2 letters matter,
P stands for “Passion”; the passion that drives me.
T takes on “Time”; the time that binds me.

Thus it's P versus T;
that decides my fate,
So I buy myself time,
And deprive my bed.

I do what I love,
I love what I do.

Be better than the best.

Never settle for less.