I remember when teachers tried
to define creative
“Creativity is painting abstractions”
“It’s putting yourself into something”
Creativity is waking up in the morning
and being able to function.
Creativity is your routine that you hate.
Creativity is everything you do.
That’s because creativity is defined
as “Use of imagination or original ideas”
No one has ever thought the way you have
You are always creative
You are always creating
It’s becoming increasingly difficult
to care about much of everything.
Not because of lethargy
or some inexplicable lack of motivation
but because of lack of care
I get back from society.
I’d love to walk peacefully through a city
and see warm colors
in the passersby
but the color palette
consists of blues and grays
and I don’t know if my skin is thick enough
to comfort me in this frozen world.
There’s a haunting romance
in the way that time has such a hold on us.
Time draws lines in our skin
and erases them away
in the years after passing.
Time leaves you wanting more
or wishing things would pass.
Time is what gets us out of bed
and realize we’ve stayed up too late again.
We are puppets in a claustrophobic stage
Longing for someone to cut the strings.
But it’s apparent that the passing of time itself
With no room left for leisure
Is the catalyst for those urges.
Every time I turn on the radio
It seems like another sensation
singing about their heart.
Bruised, broken, in love, what have you
it always comes back
to a muscle in the chest.
I could be a cynic
but loving someone
from the bottom of your heart
is a bit cliche.
I’d rather look someone in the eyes
and tell them their touch
pleases every nerve in my body
that their presence sends warmth
from my skeletal frame
outward to the surface of my skin.
I want someone to craft with
cutting hearts out of each other’s old t-shirt fabric
I’ll wear your years of stains where ever I go
by patching up a torn up jacket.
while traversing the nostalgia-scented glowing hills
of clothing left untouched in the drawers
guided by a map
left by the wrinkles in the scraps
you may see salvage.
I see the beginning of an undying love.
brighter than your flourescent middle-school graduation shirt
softer than the fleece
lining your once favorite flannel.
When I saw you I knew that in some timeline Aphrodite froze with jealousy
Marilyn Monroe felt haunted and empty, and in Spring all turned green with envy
With you, I just want to sit and romanticize intricate little machines
What’s been taken for granted and left behind with the trends of yesteryear
We’ll take the things we’ve been holding on to and exchange them for each other
Laying together in a universe that we’ve discovered resembles a Jackson Pollock painting
I’ll look up to the splattered stars, focusing in on the point
Where Aphrodite froze, and let our spirits conjoin.
I sit near the window by the Oak Street junkies.
The type who burn bridges in their crack pipes.
The type who illuminate their lives with the sparks of their lighters
The type who stand their ground against going anywhere.
I’ve seen rock bottom.
I’ve seen rock bottom and rock bottom is the bottom of a bag of rock
the bag of rock which you used up your week’s pay buying
the bag of rock which you used up your life cherishing.
They can sit here, I’ll listen to them.
Talking about “Molly” as if anyone will give a fuck about her in 20 years.
They can sit here and measure their own worth in green grams.
I can sit here and know there is more to life than brain-dead memories.
But still understand that there is more to a man than his decisions.