Time on the clock is perpetually winding down.
Staring at all the work, the kid says, "Frick."
Instead, he looks outside, only to see the moon frown.
Tock, tock, tock.
The text in his books getting small and blurry;
He looks at a blank paper, writer's block.
The kid rubs his forehead; his mind a flurry.
Drip, drip, drip.
The kid hears from across the suite, the leaky sink;
The most inconceivable, yet irritating blip.
The ruckus, the writer can't think.
Drop, drop, drop.
Why won't this paper write itself?
He looks at his bed, covers and pillows on top.
With a sigh, he puts his books back on the shelf.
Creak, creak, creak.
The boy closes his room door, and off goes the light.
"Perhaps sleep will give me the answers I seek."
Good night.
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