Lying on my bed

Staring at my pen

Thinking of something good to write.

For my eyes won’t clsoe

I open my nose

Slimy liquid stream down like a hose.

I told my sleeping sister

What I had just wrote

Her feet went straight to my nose.

My nose, my poor poor nose.

You have been through a lot

From pimples to blackheads

Why are you always targeted?

Now that I realize

That this poem makes no sense

I might as well sleep on my bed.