i have a brain that functions
and i have a pen with ink
and i have a poem inside me
it may squeeze out if i think
but, alas, it isn't coming
and my pleading does not work
its adhering to my brain cells
but outside, it will not lurk
its three-forty in the morning
music's playing soft and low
i hear cars outside my window
all night long, they're on the go
and upon this sheet of paper
is a little beam of light
but at this given moment
neither one of us is bright
i had woke up in frustration
from some boring cardboard dreams
and i thought i'd get creative
but that's not the way it seems
i've a quintet of lost stanzas
but my magic number's six
so this last one i'm now scribbling
then i'll get my shut-eye fix
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