Drained by the hours that were consumed by his day,
Twelve hours of work, no time left to play.
He sits and thinks of the words he could write down,
But his brain wont function, his creativity starts to drown.
Somehow, he manages to conjure a few feeble lines,
Hoping and praying that this section rhymes.
Gradually the page that he stares at, starts to merge and even blur,
Bed calling his name but he chooses to defer.
Eyes fight to stay open, pass the matchsticks if you will,
Coffee might help the situation, but he is rapidly heading downhill.
Caught in a mind game, in getting up for work,
Not to be forced to bed early, my time at home being a perk.
But as the clock hits midnight and the alarm is set for five,
Lucky if I make it to work in the morning, or even being alive.
So finally, he admits defeat and heads upstairs to bed,
No need for counting sheep tonight, asleep as soon as pillow meets head.
© C Webber 2017