Poem: Creativity Burns

[snowstormskies]

creativity burns

it’s not a thing
it’s not an it, either.

A voice in your head
A word on the page
A song in your head that goes around and around and around and around and

Keeps
          Biting
                        At
                                     Your
                                                  Soul.

It has teeth like a Great White, and the tenacity of a teenager,
Write me write me write me writemewritemeyouknowyouneedtowriteme NOW

It’s characters who demand to be heard
It's scenes so vivid you can touch the flames,
It's desperation and frustration, pleasure and treasure, celebration and condemnation
And
              It's
                         All
                                   Yours.

You’re a writer but you’re not in charge
No no no no no no no, you think you're in charge?
You're not. Not really.

You do what you’re fucking told
You have a muse,
a fat cow of an alternative self who wants more now not in ten
Fucking
              Minutes
                           PLEASE.

It’s not about numbers
About reviews and favourites
Books sold and poems printed
Best seller lists and critical opinions
And what the teacherrevieweryourbetayourbestfriendovertheinternet wants you to know
Because
That’s Not Why You Write.

It’s not about followers and
Friends
Social networking

It’s about words
The subtle dip and dive of language
Sweet conversations in bed, angry rages in lifts,
Hollywood glamour and eighteen hour days slaving in a sweatshop,
Pakistan and Britain, China and America,
Mad men and brave men
Wives and women and lovers and fighters and haters
Voices of your own creations

Moving between points of view that feels like dipping the wing of a hawk
A sudden miscalculation sending you

Screaming
Down
To earth

Crash and burn
Set fire to the paper
Magnetize the hardrive
The delete button is never that far away and you're back
Right
       Where  
                      You
                                Started

Stare at blank pages,
and it's all there to be filled.

Never said it would be easy

But rebuild it
Start it again

Set the scene,
Find your character,
your little puppet to pull the strings of and make them waltz
find your voice in this tangled web of lies and pain and hurt and
hold it tight to your chest because it's so precious and it's so smalll

And set it free

Give them love and replace it with heartbreak
Tear their beliefs in two and tell them it’s okay to have faith
Rock them to sleep and steal their children while Morpheus guards them
Give them a house, and rip it down around their ears
Take away the safety net and tell them that it’s stronger than ever

But write it.
See it.
Dream it.
Etch it into your soul with a biro and a cheap mug of coffee for ink

Give it strength and give it weakness

but bring it home.

(Originally submitted for assessment at Bangor University, School of Creative Writing, under the name Rebecca Rayner, but now extended and posted for personal entertainment.)