Random New Poem: The Hour Is Late To Be Sitting Here

The Hour Is Late to Be Sitting Here

I want my bed,
want my sleep, but I am
here instead, sitting
at the desk again
as I find happens
in dark, lonely hours,
the times that can be
stolen from the world
with the only loss
my own rest. writing,
though it seems my
mind is only able
to muster up
the easy thing,
writing about
being here, about
writing this very poem
as it is happening,
making me wonder,
of course, why I am
awake for this,
why I have stayed
here, done this
to myself, sacrificed
nightly repair only
for this poem, this
nothing of a poem,
the only thing to show
the world tomorrow
if anyone asks about
my bloodshot eyes
or why I need a nap,
but still, it is mine,
these words are mine
here, even in your mind
reading them, they are
what I have done, have
made, something that
will last longer than
the sleep, than even
the need I have
tonight for that respite,
so, flimsy as it may be,
it is what I have traded
my night for, what I
am making, what I have
to give tonight.  It must be
enough, even this
must, some days, be enough.