Creation
A brief, fleeting high

Word to page
Image to canvas
Filling a void in the world
When I'd rather fill it in myself

To create, I exist
If creation forms,
Then so must its creator
I am real only when my hands
Are put to work

Praise,
Acknowledgement,
To be seen not for what I am
But for what I make
Is the sweetest of deceptions
I am known, without being known
By what creations I bring into the world

The self is fictitious,
If only seen through one's fictions

I chase the joys of making,
Forming,
Breathing life into formless idea,
But fear dutifully follows joy
If what is made by my hands
Is found lacking,
Then shall I?

Where does the self begin,
And the creation end?