I’ve lost my creativity.
I’ve lost my creativity. Or, I don’t know if lost is the right word, maybe misplaced. Had stolen from me.
Maybe in one brash moment it realized that I could not contain what it had to offer; because it had to offer A LOT.
Plains and prairies ravished by warfare and wastefulness, saved by heroes and heroines.
Or maybe just heroin, I’ve never done it officially but who knows what particular pill held which particular price.
In one brash moment it realized that the swinging cyphers swindled their musical chords under a veil of apathy that really covered a face void of it.
In one brash moment it realized that the shifting shapes of pencil to paper were penniless compared to some other soul in some other place that could use it better.
It used to offer a lot, but I cannot find it anymore.
Even now, can you see its shadow trying to write? Trying to remember some vague trace of what used to come out of my mind.
How “clever”, using two words that start with the same letter consistently throughout a paragraph. Chivalrous-less cheating. Wonton wordplay. Grandiose grey.
Or am I even using my creativity? Is this mine? Or some vague memory of King or Danielson or Marakami or Poe or Dekker or Muyumato or Lewis or Stevens or Foreman or Walker. Or mother or father.
Or son or daughter.
Is it really mine or is it the lyrics Balmorhea never wrote as a song I can’t even recognize blares through headphones I couldn’t afford to buy for myself?
Is it really mine or did it sleep in my bed only to leave before I woke up in the morning?
Maybe creativity is a whore sold to all who can afford, and I have just not the currency to keep her around.
Maybe it’s a product of despair. I mean really, who writes a thirteen track album about a girl dying in a car crash.
Who can’t finish it even though every song is about the same thing!? Displaced depression. Self-prescribed prescriptions hold off aimless anxieties. The untold story of the rich white kid.
Fucking prick you are. Who authorized you to have creativity to begin with! All records show that you in fact were destined for destitution. Preordained to be ordinary.
“Hey you were given everything by the world!”
“Yea well I guess I was too weak to carry it.”
So, I guess what I’m asking is for another chance. If you are a whore then name your price. Cause the scars on my fingers are healing and I can’t have that.
My inkwells are empty and this piano is out of tune. My battery is dying and my strings are broken.
Any more metaphors you would like; I know they’re not that creative but you always held the most creative lines. I love you but you have left. I miss myself.
I don’t know who is speaking but I can see what he can’t manage to say glancing over your glimmering lips. Your gentle touch feels such that I could wake up wet from more than sweat.
Please come back. I’m nothing without you.