Night

Hey all.. I am not experienced in writing poetry. But I read some poems by Philip Larkin and was inspired to see how I'd fare on my own. I don't know if this is considered dramatic poetry. This is simply an attempt to put my thoughts and emotions into words.
The sun is just beginning to rise as I type... it's beautiful.

Night

I’ve often spent the nights
Aimlessly staring at the texts,
While making secret lists

Of where I’ve been and where I’ll be;
And I lament my lazy mind’s inability
To see that it only laughs
At thoughts of acts
Of a masochistic breed.

I am alone when I self-loathe.

Is this why
I wait for that hue of black
To mask the Sun?

At the present time, I tire,
But the night has begun,
And the wretched Sun threatens
To rise at any time.

Now I find myself remiss,
And cannot delight, as I usually do,
In that sweet refuge:
Dreams of life cut short
(Perhaps in a deluge).

Why not?
Because I am not alone:
Here sits a child, awake and well,
And this young girl’s spell
Exposes my Hell:

Figments
Of self-deference and belittlement
Are now blocked by her guise, lazily reposed.

I cannot help but admire her innocence.

And yet I hate this light that now reveals that
My heart exists
(and perhaps practical ideals),
Thwarting the whip my mind oft wields.

I yield
When I try to lash my scarred back:
Before I could only heard the crack,
But now I hear my marred flesh
Crying, begging my permission to heal.

I wait. I stare. I cough. I wait.
I sigh. I shake my head awake.

These listless habits will come of nothing:
'Tis a matter of fact, not fate…I think.