Path of Creativity
Poetry
Is creativity a self-inflicted wound?
an unshakeable itch of the underbelly,
a release of demons torn from within a core forever scarred,
or crystallized drops of an infinite, unwavering universe
building words uninterrupted?
Is the creative path a haphazard collection of reflections
that shatter the mirrored coating of the soul,
with a stitching some see as limitless,
without boundaries,
having no beginning and no end,
or can I just swallow the beauty of my creative fantasies
and bleed them onto a blank canvas
like traipsing under the inverted umbrella
of an Eiffel tower,
stalking each raindrop in Paris
until I become tattooed in the imbued scenery of the Seine
and find each rue tethered to a chamber of my heart?
Can I bounce my creative angst against the cosmos
and know that nothing I create
could ever match the configuration of the stars,
the notes of a blues sonata
or the refraction of a single word uttered in unspeakable tongues?
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
