I beat the sunrise.
It can’t outrun me
when I’m up all night.

And secretly
the energy
in my personality
is the courtesy
of the adrenaline in
the morning
that’s been lasting
since 3 AM.

Every time the sky glows
my body knows
how it always goes.

My goosebumps raise
until the jealous sun’s rays,
flaming around laze,
come to whisper the day,
and they often say
the morning is “mine”
and now it’s time—
because they call me the Lark—
for me to tell,
on branches from which I fell,
the day to start.

I hit my head going to bed.
Now I’ll be awake
even when I’m dead.

And secretly I’ve
always liked
the fright of night
and spite
of all things bright,
often unkind,
in this sour mind
of mine.

Every time the veil lifts,
this is it,
how I can’t quit.

My feathers jump
and the sun’s always stumped,
traveling slowly up,
why I haven’t yet done
the morning fun
as I reluctantly climb,
and now it’s time—
because they call me the Lark,—
for me to tell,
on branches from which I fell,
the day to start.