Words begin to float
to the surface of her mind.
She grabs her pen as
the lines begin to rhyme;
another poem is being born.
She’ll be exhausted
tomorrow morn;
but so flows the juices
when the muse seduces
her from nightly rest.
In this inner world
creativity is like a drug
a natural high;
there’s so much to say
sleep just has to wait.

Carolyn Brunelle

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-natural-high/