Another long late night for me, I guess.
I’d rather write you poetry and think
how you’ll react to read my words that dress
the page in colors, bring it food and drink,
give it a life so it can rave and rant
at the injustice of it all. I know,
you’d like your restful sleep back, but I can’t
return to you what I don’t have. My own
has fled at promises the page tells me.
My own words dance and sing, keep me awake,
paint pictures in my mind so vividly
they recall all the dreams I’d gladly take
and make real and true and bring to life.
But I’m afraid Alaska is not right.








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