Stoop

It dares to be ignited.
It coils and cocks its springs.
It bares, to be united.
It toils and flocks to things
that dare to be divisive,
that coil at thoughts of flings,
that bare themselves, invited,
that toil in souls, and sing
with dares that you incited,
with coils you helped to wring,
with bare intent, requited.
With toil, you stoop to swing.

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What does creativity mean to you?

A friend asked this question in an Instagram post.
This was my response.

Creativity is therapy,
self-discovery,
a way to reduce your thoughts like a sauce in a pan,
till all you’re left with is a concentrated, thick syrup,
preserved and bottled, but on canvases, notebooks,
and diner napkins.

The greatest effect that creativity has on my life
is not in its existence,
but in its dire absence;
my heart and mind speaks to me in riddles
that only creativity can help decipher,
so without it, I am awash with tangles and short tempers,
until at last the tantrums drive me to write, play, sing,
or simply express aloud,
my volcanic eruption of unsolidified self
careening down my cheeks, leaving scars on my face,
and grey hairs on my head.

Better that I indulge the creativity,
more for what it helps relieve,
than for what it helps provide.

Weighed down

Days pass
like throwing cardboard
in the trash
instead of the recycling.

Nights fade
like beautiful strangers
into crowds;
no name, no number.

Mornings come
like broken promises,
creeping in,
dark glasses and all.

Everything I am

Is it so much to ask
for you to bask and fawn
at what is drawn from deep,
and seek to understand
the man who made it so?

Is it so hard to know
how far the throws may fall
if none at all are caught
or sought to be retrieved
for me, for you, for us?

Is it so dire to lust
for eyes I trust to find
the truths confined in words
they heard whilst listening
to everything I am?