I wrote this poem over a month ago, but for some reason didn’t put the date on the paper, which is unlike me. Sometimes I write poems and don’t post them right away because I’m not sure of them, what they mean to me, if they’re any good. But this has been hanging on my wall for over a month and I reread it and I know now why it makes sense to me. It’s me giving myself license to be creative and to reflect this world back at itself. To not know what it is that creeps in the webs of my creative spirit, but to just believe. I need to believe in me now more than ever. I need to believe in peace and love and that humanity is going to rise like a phoenix after we’ve all said our peace and have mourned. There is a lot of work though, a whole lot of work to still be done. And we’re tired, but we go on because that’s what we have to do for humanity to rise out of the ashes and be as majestic and powerful as we all need it to be.
I’m not fighting this urge to be creative.
My normal tank is now half full
I pour this extra into the other auras
The ones that have prisms with light and lord’s.
The sounds circle my pen and each ray shows itself onto my paper.
I’m not tempted to explain my colors,
I know they’re here and some are muted, some are vibrant, some want to play,
And in this playground I’m without a foe, without a limit or a whistle to signify,
No, this keeps flowing through webs of thoughts,
Poetic synchronized dancing, choreographed through little movements that feel good.
No one calls to say goodbye here, the fear is too real,
You call to bring smiles and offer a trade or a gesture.
I’m okay being a poet for the day, offering you hope in exchange for
A thought in return, a good deed delivered just in time.
No starch can press out this worry that has wrinkled my face.
But I remain hopeful.
My creativity and goals are mined like gold.
So valuable that my pen is the shovel, and my mind is the pan.
Hear me now, you old poet friend.
We’re going to work, with all our tools, our efforts and our colors.
Speaking truth, and breaking through.
When our work is done, I promise we’ll be rich, so rich
Our pens will move on their own and the mine will have more than paid for itself in good.