I sit here alone,
At the strike of midnight,
I decide to write,
Words make no sense,
When you have to sleep,
But something in my brain is bound to leap,
Scribbling some nonsense,
I pretend to write,
You know what?
I rather be out,
Flying my old kite,
I must stop,
Before it gets worse,
The writers block with it I am cursed,
Would you look,
The hand is past twelve,
It signals something,
But I can't quite tell.
