It's 1 a.m.
I'm a writer and an insomniac
I can't find my pen
does that mean you're sleeping
with the enemy
I'm doing it again
it's a compulsion
it's like treachery
stuff to do
piling up in my room
but I can't seem to detach
long enough
the written world
that which cannot be heard
fills my head, consumes
the minutes tick by
into hours that fly
I've stopped asking why I
don't sleep
it's not the company I keep or
the companionship I seek
when there's pen put to paper
I grow weak
Are you still up?
No comments:
Post a Comment