To Write

Encircled by a cocoon of comforter blankets
And the pink hue of my bedroom.
A racing mind frustrates an exhausted body
In a home,
Dead silent,
with my family fast asleep.
But I stir at two thirty;
when the world snoozes.
My unsightly journal beckons
With its broken binding
And imitation “snakeskin” closure
Smelling horribly of suede.
Segmented thoughts take word form,
Following only my customized grammar.
The rantings of fatigue fall from my pencil.
As a frantic hand dares to keep up with my mental dialogue.
Pages fill with hypocritical opinions
Or genius inventions for flipping pancakes
Or whatever knowledge keeps my mind pacing.
No reason, no transitions,
No dates, no commitment.
A now-weary brain sighs contentedly,
Relieved of its brilliant late night revelation.