Latenight

The days my mind is slow I do not write
Until I make myself, and then the juice
Of intellect will flow, though slow and tight,
Down through my brain and out my fingers' sluice.
I'm never sure exactly what I'll say
Or how the words will shape what follows after
But when I cannot write the world is gray
And echoes with a dull, half-muted laughter.
I am content to be, sometimes, asleep
Even as I stand with wide, clear eyes
But I am happier when I can leap
Out of that state, to where my writing lies
Waiting for me, somewhere locked in my head
Sometimes only to rise when I'm in bed.