Some poems woke me up tonight,

Threw stones at my soul, filled the room with light.


A group of hoodlums, they looked hard and cool,

A few stepped forward, “we are the words that rule.”


“You never listen, you never write!”

(He was the loudest, gave me a fright).


“I’m not a poet. It’s not my thing”

My feeble excuse has a hollow ring.


A small hoodie jumped in front of the others,

“I might be smaller than my brothers,

But Ive been through the mill.

My story in your book, you need to fill.”


Wincing at her bad sentence construction,

I could still sense her sad story seduction.


They loomed in further, 3am shadows dark,

A gang of words, ready to leave a mark.


“Ok, ok. I’ll give it a go.

But please let me sleep now,

Ive had enough of your show.


They back off then, something in my voice,

Smirking at me, they knew I had no choice.


Be careful of wishing for words before sleep,

For, at 3am, into your room they will creep.