Don’t need it, she says
Picking at a hangnail, rubbing her wrist
she is the love child of
Adopted by Reason, brought into this thin-cushioned hell.
Little mantra, a lullaby from her mother.
Creativity, shot to hell from the start
Father spirit pounds on her skull,
Knocking on wood, making lucky guesses,
Torn by two realities, forced into a third.
Creative minds don’t think alike,
Happy in their differences, she sings her mantra.
Willing it to be true, she tears her hangnail.
You ought to be locked up, says Reason.
Angry screaming fights with Destruction,
Hateful silences between her and Reason,
She is yearning for her mother.
Where has she gone?
Creative wing shelters her no longer
No imagination, no experimentation,
simply hell bent on pleasing her father
All that is Big and Grandiose and Ostentatious.
She lives to please those who wish her dead,
Who whisper sweet death in her ear.
She lives to spite them
Look what I can do, she cries
Triumphant all the same.