Been chicken-scratching for a while.
I’m far too tired to think.
I look down at my hands and smile
At fingers stained with ink.
The newborn hours of the morn
Are marching round the clock.
My thesis is a unicorn.
I crashed the writer’s block.
But eyes that weigh a hundred pounds
Are open in a jiff.
Ideas come from out of bounds
And talk me off the cliff.
I fill the paper line by line
With things I want to write.
With spirit in this corpse of mine,
I’ll see the end of night.