Creativity (Midnight Freewrite)

Once upon a time, my mind was blank.
Could I finally be sane
from the feelings ingrained in my so often flooded mind?
This ocean pushes the small grains of sand as though keeping
them all at one place,
the inability to crawl back to where they once were.
Accompanied by many,
yet purified throughout the constant washing due
to clashing of waves.
The stubborn rocks give in,
once enormous,
they've become wearisome from being pummeled over and over by the ruthless ripples,
eating away mercilessly like piranhas.
The rocks begin to deteriorate like my wretched nightmares,
as if it was inevitable for them to reciprocate this way.

I think to myself

Could I for once create something beautiful without the taint
of distortion my pessimistic perspective brings upon my cursed
brain?
Or is the lust after such a wicked dream be looked down
upon by my insides which take control of me?

Perhaps one should blame his imaginations
for considering such a change.
Imaginations which were once banished.
Ones leading to joy and happiness,
when one was once optimistic to the sun and the trees,
the butterflies in his stomach that
cause him to day dream.
The butterflies which took him away from the struggles, and constant agony.
The one that drove him away from the thoughts
of his uncles,
and made him believe they would be there as he woke.

The kind of imagination that
One must pinch himself to see if he's awake.

But why do I feel?

                                                                I once had the power to dream,
                                                 To think such miracles were real.
                             I dared to think there was such a thing.

                                                     My creativity got the best of me.

It is really sad
And I feel really bad
That as I sit down to write
Something utterly witty, humorous and bright
Nothing comes into my mind -
There's absolutely nothing I can find!
I've no thoughts of any kind,
My feelings, they're all intertwined!
My mind's as dry and stale as rind.
My inspiration has run dry
There's nothing left for me to try
I can't help but oh, cry!
Perhaps there's soomething new,
Something that I can try to do,
Something that I can write about,
Apart from maybe parachutes and trout!
Should I shout?
Maybe I should wail out loud
Or maybe wear a thick, black shroud?
Either way, it has gotten rather infuriating,
To not be able to write anything.
But hey, now I've got something!
It's this poem - I wrote it without ever realizing
How my creativity's returned to me,
It's not as difficult as I thought it'd be!
Oh my! Oh my!
It's nothing!
Goodbye!

i just know that the water is bad.
i just know.
i will never turn that tap on.
cos i just know.
the water.
is.
bad.

~

Some things hurt with such intensity, and I don’t know why,

Sounds, smells, scenes.

It’s like I’ve been here before and experienced the most significant emotional event or worse, that it reminds me of a place I’ll never be again.

I can’t understand why they tug at my heart like they do, but I have to hold on to the pain, the sentiment; I can’t waste the emotion, I need to save it and use it, hold it and fuse it,
With some other part of my life.
Whether I intentionally make memories to fill a void made by one of these unknown bursts of feeling,
Or plan my future to head towards them and fulfill them...

I must do something,
To free myself from the thought,
That they may be nothing,
That my mind may be meaningless,
Even if it’s true,
I’d rather deceive myself,
And make it out of something that I drew.

Nothing can stop my mind’s emotion,
So I’ll just give it fuel to soak in.
I need a place to put them,
And burn until I’m deep in REM.
Dreams let my creativity thrive,
Because my waking self can’t give them all life.
I hold things you could never imagine,
Endless dreamscapes of comfort and strife.
Someday it will feel right,
The worst things that pain me will be greater in reality,
Someday it will all be in sight,
After years I will create more than I imagined in my ability.

"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”