Poetry is like lightning

It strikes and then leaves me.

Leaves me, with my mind trying in vain

To preserve that lil piece of creativity that it received.

Leaves me thinking on how the most beautiful words

Meet with my mind when I'm in no position to conserve them.

Why is 3 a.m. the time most thoughts come hit me-

when my mind is active but my body isn't.

Why is my mind not swift enough to actually

catch the parcel of inventive phrases its been provided with?

Everyday I wake up and try to replay

The lines I receive from those parcels

But they keep buffering,

Buffering and buffering and buffering

Making everything infuriating!

Can't that parcel of creativity stay a little longer?

Only a little longer, please?