The mind of an artist is an insane thing

Inciting you to draw that one last line
Or write a sonnet about knitting twine
Forcing you to burn the Midnight Oil
You beg it to rest but still you toil

When the day’s light is in the sky
Your muses sleep and so you sigh
But when you would put your mind to rest
It’s wide awake and demanding your best

Why oh why must the mind be so
Jumping about like a jackrabbit oh
At all the wrong hours it would have you work
Yet when you want it there’s not a quirk

So woe betide the poem’s written
Will I get to rest or still be smitten
By my muses active so
Dancing around when the sun hides low