Today The Child Yelled At Me Again

The love is so beautiful,
*******,
I'm devouring it whole.
Look at them all, baby o mine lilla!!!!!!!
Is it a pure talent?
Self love or just luck?

I remember the childhood:
A baby lady was telling stories to her mom,
Imagination threw the new events out,
As the baby spoke,
And she was even writing it in a little "Winx" notebook at the same time.
And the mom and the baby
Were happy, very happy,
Even if everything disappeared through the ages,
Even the writing was an useless bunch of waves,
No letters, only waves,
Because the daughter couldn't write at all,
She could just IMAGINE and SHARE.

And still everything was as beautiful,
As it could possibly be.

Right now the things are different,
And the girl is a little older,
And she's still writing etwas,
And the waves turned into the letters,
But no one wants to listen,
Even she herself.

Why?

Because when you create,
You should pat your inner child,
Cause it has ideas,
It chews it and spits out
In a perfect way,
That adults can't,

And never will.

Because the child is too pure,
Undeniable purity,
Non-touched by morals, standards,
And all that stupid everything-destructing ****.
Made by self-destructive humansssss.

It just goes,.!
Just creates,

And your genius,

(Look at him, so loveable!)

Is an untouched child, too.

Pat it's silky hair

Now.

And maybe then,

You'll be finally satisfied with yourself that much,

So the others won't be so
Cruel,
And the adult, damaged you
won't be so cruel,

Because you'll be a child;

Indifferent, innocent, creative and pure.

I'm telling.

The Playfulness Of Genius

Genius is a playful thing
Like a little cat
Or a little human
Or two flies,
Who fly around,
Follow each other happily.

It may sit in you deeply,
And grow roots in you,
Your mind, your very soul,
And you may have it
More than many known for being geniuses
Ever had,
But
It may never come out.

You can struggle and think
About words and their position,
Meanings and creations,
It's structure and absurdity,
And just it's gut,
Or just close your eyes, and fly,
And go all the way
Like one wise old man adviced,
But it many never come out

Never ever.

Yes, it can sit still, but never come out,
right as it supposed to,
as you desire, as the Art desires.
The genius is playing with simple minds of people's.

Or it can roar, and scream, and chirp so loud,
And struggle to try to tear your body,
And you forced to just let it splat on the paper,
And here it is,
The most perfect,
The finest germ of Art,
Born,
Lying before your eyes
Like a just found piece of non-touched gold,
Here it is,
The dearest treasure,
As perfect as it can be,
And some just did it.

Struggle,
          Not struggle,
     Think,
              Or fly,
                      Some geniuses show to us,
                 And some are sleeping under the
Thick, heavy cover of the life,
Or just their genius plays with them,
But those,
Whose genius desires to be out,
Not to sleep in the softest bed of your soul,
Who's not too stubborn,
Or maybe not too playful,
Are the luckiest people
To ever exist.