Comes the night, & I do repeal

The pain and pressure I feel

For a 100 pages of many words

Some sweet, but some absurd



Do stare right back at me 

From this bright screen

I see images which smile

And some more which pile



Up in my mind, spinning

My thoughts and trimming

My soul to the very edges

As my words do tread less



The more I rework them

The less I adore the stem

From which petals fall

As I give well my all



And printers do purr

As I listen to whirrs

Which tell me the copy

Is there even tho choppy



And there has to be some

Sacrifice I can make on

These words which soar

As I do some chores



For some have it sure

Whilst I deal with bores

Which now are the act of

A writer who's lost above



The clock upon the shelf

Which bids me sell self

Instead of writing art

Which is thrill's start



This very kind of thing

Makes no bells ring

And so ... I'd rather

Write still farther



But books state I ought

To make my reward sought

And so I play the game

Really doing it lame



For my prize is already won

It quite simply is in the fun

I get out of making it work

As all the rhymes do perk



And wonder does bubble over

As I see it all in clover

Which seeps thru my skin

For my whole life is a bin



From which I craft my art

Out of so very many parts

And the music I do hear

Rushes hard at my ears



And the noises do stir

Me to turn with a whir

The phrases I do need 

As my heart does bleed



And pressure I'm under

Sends me quiet thunder

Until I hear a roar

Then I produce more



So push back the hands

So I can see the sands

Which pour thru hourglass

And now cuts me at last



In two very major pieces

As I deal with the leases

Made today upon my brain

As I push back the rain.



-Tristram