Why must I force myself to write? Is there some pressing need?
Some urgent thought for which to fight, to strive for, then succeed?
Some precious cause that shines so bright, as if a noble deed?
My bedtime comes and so Good Night! So sad I disagreed!
But conscience keeps me in my chair! It will not let me leave.
It holds me tight and shouts, STAY THERE! No wonder that I grieve.
But I have learned such times to bear, some poems to receive.
Then come the words at which I stare, this poem to achieve.
I battle on so every phrase will fit upon each line.
I know each one must yet take place until it turns out fine.
Then all at once, I can embrace the words that flow like wine.
Despite the gently yawning face that turns out to be mine.
When finally the poem ends, now comes the time to stand.
The time each poet comprehends! To go to bed as planned!
Denis Martindale, for the 2nd of March 2024.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem