Click, Click, Click, my keyboards click,
My piano fingers deftly flick.
Writing, spelling, making words,
Until the sound of the waking birds.
The time just flies when your on your own,
Writing your thoughts when your all alone.
The dawn is breaking and you've had no sleep,
But you know one thing, you'll not be counting sheep.
Your eyes are tired, your hands are weary,
And your screen in front starts to get all blurry.
You know its time to stop the writing,
Yet there's this strange urge you just keep on fighting.
It's the urge to write, to keep flowing lines,
To keep it certain that your poem ryhymes.
But stop you must, for its far too late,
When the postman wanders through the garden gate.