Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Battle

The strokes are mine or yours
To paint, create, embellish, relate
“Normalcy” is gone
Imagination begins.

It starts out small
A tiny creature
With food it grows
Mama tries to feed it.

The world works against it.
Pages of fantasy provide
a tasty meal. But just one taste
Or the checklist will scream.

Deadlines and demands are demons
They rear their ugly head and
Snap rugged fangs at creativity
Tearing it down, it cannot grow.

Short breaths, no air.
Weak bones, no food.
What is my disease?
Where is my cure?

It is not depression, but
Deprivation. No one can
Survive on mere facts alone
Homo Sapiens need imagination.

But they do not demand or crave.
It sits in a box under the bed.
Rattling, shaking, crying
I pretend not to hear.

The key turns, a world breaks
Loose. Imagination draws
Its sword, but it’s weak
It demands my full support.

Now I must choose the side
To feed. It is safe to ignore
My imagination.
Work prefers rules.

The routine is painful.
Why suffer at work’s expense?
So, I let It out. I give It a meal.
I lose myself in my imagination.

Pages create paintbrushes in my
Head. Wondrous scenes projected.
They leave me no choice. I cannot
Stop, I am powerless.

This ravenous beast. One plate,
One chapter, now I am gone.
For seven hundred pages
I do not come back.

Wizards and witches cast a
Spell on me, on my time.
My brain brews, bubbles, explores.
Enraptured in a second universe.

The tangible world calls,
Asks, beckons. I hide
Behind a tree, in a bathtub
Now my no one can demand of me.

There is no time to feed
Tasks and checklists
Neglected and foreign
I am partially starved.

I am not healthy
One lives and one dies.
Why must they live so

I have created the enemies
Inside me. I have turned the
“shoulds” against the “ables.”
And I have paid the price.

The “shoulds” are useless
They weigh and tear at
Time. Bearers of stress
Enemies of possibilities.

Facts and tasks are not “shoulds.”
They can easily transform.
I let them transform.
But they are not “shoulds.”

The dichotomy is strange.
Why separate Imagination
From daily routine when they
Are able to live harmoniously?

I can sweep the floor
And dance with a prince.
I can walk to class
And paint the road.

Imagination is my pet.
I can groom it to perfection
Or I can neglect it
But it must be fed.

There is possibility and
Creativity in my ability.
Stress created the war and
Imagination will end it.

This is how I felt last semester. I was struggling between deadlines and duties and a craving to free up and create. I think that's all a part of college though. Finding the right balance. This poem helped me do that. I have grown fond of writing poetry because it seems as though I am more likely to say how I feel. My thoughts come in little spurts, instead of constructed sentences, and poems can be a rearrangement of those little spurts. This way, I can cut out all the fluff and just say how I feel.

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