Late at night
I'm the only one awake
and inspiration strikes
like a speeding bullet
a train
it pulls me along
.......and I rush
.........across the room
...........over the bed
to a notebook
where I scribble
.............down thoughts
in my mind
and I can write all night
sitting there
........with my notebook
and a pencil
I used to think
that a poem was
.......a silly little thing
that rhymed
but now I know better
..........that a poem is feelings
and thoughts
......all scrunched together
........in your mind
..........and poured
..............onto paper
the rhymes sound good
.......but they are flat
and don't hold meaning
anymore
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