The poet writes in the middle of the night
When everyone else is sleeping.
Words continue to flood his mind without relent.
Only absurd tiredness will overcome the torrent
That seemingly never ends.
By the brain turning off, going numb for a while,
The words have no receptors to receive them,
Nowhere to go, and the poet sleeps.
Fingers stop moving, pen stops flowing,
Ideas die on the vine.
Once in a while
It will have to be okay for the words to die,
The mind cannot process all of them all the time.
Rest comes, and the poet sleeps.
Words fall to the ground,
They bounce off the floor,
They charge into oblivion
Uncaptured by receptive mind.
A smile crosses the face,
Eyelids close, and the poet sleeps.
Books by Marty