Writing

Writing, writing, writing,
into the middle of the night.
i can not stop writing.
what is wrong with me?
why do these ideas keep pouring out of my hand,
like the the rain from clouds after a long drought?
i suppose its a good thing though, to write....
But i need my sleep,
my precious sleep that i not so often posesse. 
instead i just lay here,
writing, writing, writing
into the depths of the blackest 
of all nights.