(three in the morning)
~
the words flow with ease
in pictures and phrases,
but the cascade won't cease
till his book's out of pages.
now its three in the morning,
it’s not sheep he is counting;
the words still are flowing,
his frustration is mounting.
its an overdue balance,
this tossing and turning;
like a debt that he's owing,
yet for rest he is yearning.
then in sweaty exhaustion,
the night he is lighting;
in hopes of salvation,
turns his thoughts into writing.
words tumble in earnest,
in assembly of verses;
in a nocturnal skirmish,
with a mistress coercive.
yes, dreams are his master,
each night is his foe;
only daybreak his answer,
to this poetry flow.
~
post script.
(a bit like the last one)
while I am certain there are
plenty of exceptions,
you who experience this mistress...
you know who you are and
you know her siren call.
funny how days, weeks, sometimes months
can go by, and nothing... just a dry river bed...
and then... bam! the dam breaks!
and ****, there goes one’s sleep...
out the window and down the river!
it's as if someone is saying,
“forget sleep, silly boy...
you wanted poetry,
now write!”