I am a late night thinker,
Who holds a muted light under the covers,
Who scribbles quickly before it flickers out,
Who suffers from a willing lack of sleep.
I do all that I am possibly able,
What I can do for others,
What I must do for my family,
What I want to do for myself.
I do some of my best work at night,
When the moon is full,
When coyotes cackle in the fields,
When owls scold each other in the trees.
I live east of the giant mountains,
Where the sun rises over them each day,
Where I fight against those around me,
Where I call my one and only home.
But still I have so many questions.
Why am I here?
Why am I writing this?
And why, in the world, do people read it?