Insomnia Of The Writer Poem by Shiloh Thompson

Typing furiously upon her keyboard,
This insomnia gathering itself tighter,
No rest for the weary poet,
As she works deep into the night.

Blank page filled with promise,
Of words written black and bold,
The cursor dancing and scampering,
Back and forth across the page.

Word after word marching in lines,
Standing proudly like little soldiers,
Filling the whiteness of the page,
Each announcing its purpose to the world.

Art hidden just beneath the surface,
Rising faster and faster until it consumes,
Ensconcing the page in a flood of beauty,
Swirling full of passion and emotion.

Eyes bloodshot and drooping,
Yet the story is not complete,
Hands typing furiously,
To let out all the words.

Hate, rage and fury,
Joy, happiness and excitement,
Passion, lust and love,
Each spewing forth in a slew of creativity.

The weary writer rallies for the triumphant finish,
Typing ever faster until her hands are a blur,
Each finger clicking against the keyboard,
A magical music to her strained ears.

The crescendo is upon the writer,
The rushing of the music in her mind,
Swelling, bursting, climaxing,
The moment of passion is here!

Beauty drips from the once blank page!
Emotion of the writer coming forth!
The words shout from the whiteness!
A blast of passion from the depths of creativity!

The writer sits back, smiling satisfied,
Her work lives and breathes,
This miraculous transition of blankness,
Into a multicolored black and white piece.

Still smiling, she closes her laptop,
Jumping into bed to snuggle into warm covers,
Laying back and facing the darkness,
Wrapped in the arms of creative inspiration and life.

Rolling onto her side, the writer peers into the darkness,
Her eyes sagging, a huge yawn or two later,
The insomnia looses its grip,
And our weary writer sleeps, at last.