They fall out of me
Quicker than I can write them
Quicker than I can type them
Quicker than the computer can save them
or the page can turn them
I have to stop my mind some nights
from creating art
My thoughts explore
these wondrous places
While I lay in bed awaiting sleep
All come to me
in the wee hours
But they come to me
has already set in.
When I’m already too tired “to art”
and I must stop myself
I tell my creativity to save it,
place a bookmark at that line
So I can come back to it later.
But I never do.
Sleep erases the budding thoughts
and I have to start fresh the next night
only to experience the same absence
and the same influx
of my creative spirits
yearning for attention.