The Power of Creativity

There is a small feeling inside of me 

It is grey, round, and grabs me

By the center of my body.

It is strong and shrinking shame

It is feeling worhtless and apologetic;

The poor thing.

Whirlpool, please, quiet down…

I know your name and sadness,

You share so much more with me 

Than the whitewashed walls

Of my bedroom.

I lay back down, and 

Tiny rain 

Starts knocking 

On my window 

With its slim fingers

Faint silhouettes 

Wash over me

It deamands nothing

Like cherry blossom trees

Bending in the wind,

Beckoning cotton curtains,

Slowly soaking up,

The thoughts

Most people use to speak, 

But I use to paint 

And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm our world embodies upon us. Humanity itself has derived from animalistic behavior, for which regulation becomes an illusion. Within our veins, cells, and chemical bonds a storm pulls all possible strength from our one and only physique. The very current society we are forced to live in shields our inner potential for calamitous behavior. A storm I speak of carries symbolically, an imperfect but perfect message. It will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, deep red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. It’s only natural for an individual to experience senses of insanity due to this indescribable phenomenon within their intellect. So, once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over or what message it was trying to tell you. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.