Creativity is grieved over.
When it leaves, your nostalgia blossoms
An old friend that you lost before its time
You weep at its funeral
Your tears burn your cheeks
With desires of what could have been.
Perhaps it died in a car accident
A violent, fiery wreck of destruction
Maybe it died in its sleep
You never did get a chance to say goodbye
Or you could have lost it in time
Watched it wither away
Like the memories you used to hold so dear.
Crying yourself to sleep, you yearn for your creativity.

The beauty, or perhaps the horror of this death
Lies in the fact that it could return.
After bargaining with Death
Death will return your creativity to you
Like some undead zombie
Or like the second coming of some benevolent angel.
And you will welcome creativity with open arms
You will hug it close, and promise that you will watch it closely.
You will assure it that you won't let it slip through your grasp.
You pick up that pen, stroke those keys
And let your friend spill out all over the pages.
But just as with people, the death of creativity is inevitable
And before long, it will leave you bleeding yet again
Only to return to you as though it never left.