When I jump into bed,
There’s no rhyme in my head.
But, when I wake up at two,
The reverse is then true.
In my head, an idea
Calls loud and calls clear.
I sit up for a time –
Considering rhythm and rhyme.
I consider the sounds;
Re-jig some words around.
The house is all quiet,
But, in my mind, there’s a riot.
As I lie there awake,
More rhymes, my mind makes.
I consider my subject
And how words connect.
When I finish verse six,
I think, ‘Right, that is it.’
Soon tiredness creeps,
So I lay down to sleep.
But there suddenly bursts
An idea for a new verse;
So I sit up again,
Grabbing paper and pen.
If I don’t write them down,
My thoughts will all drown;
They’ll survive through the night,
Once they’re in black and white.
On the pad, my thoughts stay,
As my mind drifts away.
I awaken the next morn,
And a new poem is born!
painted it right, Angela, that's how it happens, the birth of a poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this one, as I suffer from the same problem (problem?) You might like my poem called, 'A poem lost'