Midnight poet - trading lines for lines and rhymes

It is already morning and as I sit here today, I did yesterday to
Pen clenched in a hard grip, smithing words from my fist
I used to be a midnight poet, writing line after line, while others slept
It was an innocent escape, I was a productive hedonist
Somewhere along those lines, too many were crossed, self-promises unkept
Midnights lines turned to morning rhymes,
While I escaped the flashing warning signs,
After all, it was always my escape,
Isn't that quite poetic?

Yes, it’s all quite poetic,  
Until there are no more rhymes,  
And all that's left are only lines