Why oh why can’t I sleep?
Why can’t I have the hours others keep?
What is it with my brain,
at midnight the words drive me insane.
Do other writers suffer the same,
does this malady have a name?
I stare at the ceiling, words summon me,
sometimes I wish they’d let me be.
I try to fight it with all my will,
behind closed eyelids they bombard me still.
What is it about this late hour
that gives the words all their power?
Finally I lay the words to rest
put them to page, where they are best.
Soon the roosters will call for another day,
but my head is ready to hit the hay.
What will tonight bring when I go to bed,
will a thought keep me up instead?
Oh who cares, for now I can sleep,
later I will write something deep.
If you are a writer, words can be a friend,
but sometimes it’s like fighting the wind.
Nothing can fend against words that flow,
into books, poems stories they must go.
Heed the words I tell you now,
to the words you are driven to bow.
Be happy that most of the time,
words you think of don’t have to rhyme.