Rubbing my forehead, Hand in my hair,
All I see is paper, are there any words out there?
I search and I search, racking my brain,
It seems my idea has gone down the drain.
I woke up excited, ready to write,
Was I just dreaming? It is late at night.
Go get some coffee, splash water on my face.
You call yourself a writer? You're such a disgrace.
I wonder if others have felt just like this,
Shouldn't writing poetry feel like pure bliss?
Ok I admit, I am trying to be witty,
But when I am tired I get rather giddy.
Now; Back to the task of writing a poem,
Pull up saggy eyelids, don't let your mind roam.
And if you can't do that or hold up your head,
Then just pack it in and go back to bed.
Na, I don't think I'll do that, I think I'll just write,
How hard to write a poem in the middle of night.
Written July 2013
Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014
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