Lost genius

I do my best thinking around 4am
And although I'm still groggy and tired
For some quite inexplicable reason
My brain seems divinely inspired

For it's eerily quiet at that time
Just before the dawn chorus chirps in
And the silence would surely be deafening
If you dropped the proverbial pin

I conceive of great poetry and novels
Mighty tomes of the highest renown
But because I've awoken at that early hour
I'm too sleepy to write them all down

I compose some incredible music
Operatic, symphonic and choral
But the fact that I never commit them to print
Seems a shame, indeed slightly immoral

I envision magnificent artworks
Masterpieces, it ought to be said
But I never convert them to canvas
Because painting's too messy in bed

I resolve scientific conundra
And solve theorems long misunderstood
But without evidential notation
All is lost, I would have to conclude

Then when first light appears I get drowsy
So I go back to sleep until ten
Then I jump out of bed with some gusto
And try to put paper to pen

But it seems that these thoughts polymathic
Are confined to that hour of the clock
For when in the morning I try to indite
I immediately get writer's block

So my genius seems to be lost to the world
Unless I can see my way clear
To make copious notes at that time in the morn'
Which is highly unlikely, I fear