So I find again that I can't sleep.
That my pen refuses to yield;-
Yet before my words have run dry,
And the moment is forever gone.
Sooner this night of verbal passion ends,
Or the ink from my pen is drawn.-
I will write until my thumb bleeds,
My hand bruises and my fingers start to seize.
Ill carve words unto the page until it gives.
In hope that prose will let me find my sleep.
