It is strange it is weird

It is strange

It is weird

I thought that it hadn't

But it has

Disappeared

And I am well rid

Without it

I am well rid

Without the emptiness

And ugliness

of it

Sensitivity and Creativity

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create...so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating." -Pearl Buck-

To me not creating is like dying from the inside...I have been dead for quite a while now...

Kindred Spirits

You look at me

Tell me what you see

Does it look familiar?

Offensive or peculiar?

Do you feel ashamed?

Like you're being blamed

For stuff you don't even understand

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Is your heart made of guilt

Do you understand?

What is going on inside of you

What is going in the world

Around you?

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Are we kindred spirits

Or just the opposite?

You drunk as a skunk

And I, well,

Just a plain non-alcoholic

We're both in it, always

Still you look at me

And I know you see

That I'm not the one

That I used to be

To me it's still not clear

What I need to hear

If I ever need to get out of hear

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Do they call you names?

Are we kindred spirits

Or just the opposite

You drunk as a skunk

And I, well,

Just a plain non-alcoholic

We're both in it, always