The darkness of the night slowly takes over.
Yet my mind is brightly shining.
I grab my cheap pen,
And head over to the expensive wooden desk.
My parents bought it years ago
It has been used in this family years before I was born
So the young me respectfully bows,
In front of its old age.
The pen's ink flows furiously
On the calm, serene surface of the paper.
Words, phrases crowd together.
In this lonely white desert.
The clock loudly bangs announcing
Poor silence, it is harmed!
Ah nevermind, it healed itself...