PEN AND PAPER, IN THE NIGHT

The night has only just begun,

With me sitting on the window sill, night to the right, my room to the left,

I have no company,

But for the night, my pen and its paper.

The moon and the stars, seemingly smiling,

Of what cause, I wonder,

Perhaps it is the pen and paper,

Or perhaps, my posture is vulgar.

Many options lie before me, for the passing of my time,

Each more attractive,

But all that concerns me is my pen, its paper,

And the creature I keep looking for over my shoulder.

Pen is to paper, as food is to the mouth,

In this incident though,

Pen goes to the mouth,

Food is not involved, and blank remains the paper.

My aim for the night,

Was to write, and to write,

What to write about though, I wonder,

And I start to colour the paper.

All the interesting subjects,

Such as Dorian Gray, Black Beauty,

Julius Caesar, have already been taken,

By the likes of Oscar Wilde, Anna Sewell, and William Shakespeare.

Staring out, once again, into the night,

I ponder my subject,

Nothing strikes me, but for the cool wind that blows,

And I ponder again, only this time, the subject being the tearing out of my hair.

Seeing now, why the Moon and Stars ridiculed me,

I crawl to my bed,

Albeit submittingly,

That I would write something, someday, I swear.