Why I Write, Part x+56: _____________

It's pretty hard to write
In the middle of the night,
In the middle of a fight
Between my left brain and right,
and I know it's no excuse,
But I think I blew a muse.
My aesthetic, split in two
Can't give me something I can use,
Or keep from melting in the day.
The heat of the sun burns my thoughts away.
I'm sweating too hard before I start to play,
(But give me no sleep,
hunger and caffeine.
I'll be okay.)