This late at night
my mind is numb
my pen has molded
to my thumb
yet, somehow words still seem to come.
Soon my body will succumb.

I cannot keep my head upright
It's been a long and useless night.
The words I write they seem so old.
How often can a poem be told?

Perhaps I'd do a world of good
if I laid my pen upon the wood
and instead of chasing every shred
I'll put my words and self to bed.