It's the middle of the night again.
This time, however, I am armed;
I have an open beer within easy reach.

I sometimes wonder if there are many others
who wander their mental corridors at this hour;
surely, I am not alone in this.

Thoughts.... I am thinking thoughts.
They make very little sense,
hardly anything worth recording here.

There seems to be a shroud fogging my mind,
but there also seems to be a feeling of need,
to express something, to give it a life here.

Should I write of exploits of my youth,
or failed dreams of days gone by,
or of hopes and fears of times to come?

Any of those would suffice, I think,
but none of those seem worth the effort;
none are interesting to me at the moment.

Then why am I sitting here,
keyboard beneath my fingers,
with the wanting of writing straining my mind?

There should be reams of words
pouring from my fingertips
to this whiteness on the screen....

Nothing seems to come to mind,
and therefore nothing comes to the whiteness,
except more blank whiteness.

Perhaps, at the moment, that is enough.

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