I sit in my room, the usual for a Sunday night,
My pen in my hand, my mind wonders, 'What can I write?'
I glance at the clock, and struggle to focus my eyes,
'I think that says 4, but it may be blurred to 5,'
Insomnia is a regular thing for me, I struggle to sleep,
Some nights I do fine, but others, not a wink,
All I can do is sit at my desk and think and think,
Perhaps tonight is good to pop the cork and have myself a drink,

My pen begins to caress the page, my mind hones in,
Words flow easily, as the wine does, holding to the rim,
Something strange haunts my room, it seems a little girl is happy,
But, wait, who could it be? My sister is surely napping,
I set down my literary sword, and sneak into the hall,
I follow the joyous giggles, then I hear her smallish call,
I trace it to my parents' room, the lights all seem so small,
I crack the door, and there she sits, cradled in a ball.