Why is it that 

songs only come to me

when sleep refuses to?

Why is it that my 

free moments, rare all, are

filled with nothing but 

air and boredom?

Inspiration, motivation, they 

elude me persistently in daylight,

but return like lonely siblings 

to tug at my sleeves

come nightfall and time to work.

Music, words, dancing, light;

they flood from my fingers, 

trying to figure and confound 

the busywork that keeps 

me from play--

and I must send them all

away.