Sometimes I wake up in the still of night
And wonder what had given me the drive
To grab the first pencil that’s in my sight
Some paper, and into my thoughts I dive
The thoughts I’ve been oppressing for a while
Even the ones that make me cry for help
Sometimes I write the things that make me smile
More often things I’ve left up on the shelf
Despite the soreness of my worked fingers
Along with outcries from my heavy eyes
The feelings and thoughts from my dream linger
Some seem like reality but are lies
I still scribble faster from left to right
Lie back down to sleep in the still of night
And wonder what had given me the drive
To grab the first pencil that’s in my sight
Some paper, and into my thoughts I dive
The thoughts I’ve been oppressing for a while
Even the ones that make me cry for help
Sometimes I write the things that make me smile
More often things I’ve left up on the shelf
Despite the soreness of my worked fingers
Along with outcries from my heavy eyes
The feelings and thoughts from my dream linger
Some seem like reality but are lies
I still scribble faster from left to right
Lie back down to sleep in the still of night
writer3499
echome94
olican16
itzemilyy
hannahbee7
Join the Discussion
This article has 5 comments. Post your own!