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.
