and what is it about the stars that shine (brighter than eyes pleading in the moonlight)
that brings out the writer in all of us?
why are late nights and sweaty guilt at the time of day (it's morning again already)
the prime motivators for literate proficiency?

the silence of the night, the still of sleep, like a blanket, on the house lies
but you're still up, pencil moving across that paper like a skate on ice (melting ideas into insufficient words that will never express)
yes, you're still up, and the thoughts that fill your head (of better times, of better rhymes)
when you felt like you could write (oh the naivette of youth)
what a fucking laugh. youth, as if you had matured; as if anything had changed in those six months . . .

or perhaps the click-click of the computer's keys resounds as an amplified measure of the speed of your thoughts (a beacon to all who groggily appear at the foot of the stairs demanding to know the time, as if you both didn't already know)
and nervous energy, an effortless transfer of ideas and thoughts and collections of words
(the sounds of which are delicious and strange, unknown after millions of repititions - what should be familiar becomes the bizarre in the shadows of an odd light down the hall)

and the ramble achieved with the night up your sleeve bears bitter testimony (the rhythm of words is poetry, without rhyme, if it rolls of the tongue, it can be said to be good) to the inner workings of the masculine mind, with no outlet allowed in modern society.