This font of creativity,
Is endless.
A well of ideas,
Threatening to flood the edges,
Drown the world.
So much time.
So much space.
Hanging between moments,
Strung along in time.
Free me from the real,
Again.
This melancholy becomes too much,
To bear.
The orange glow in the dark.
Each exhale –
Exuding smoke.
Warning signs of burnout,
Written in wafting nostrils.
This becomes an everything.
Something to be protected,
From a cruel outside world.
Holding us safe,
In the pockets between realities.
I build so many of these worlds,
From scratch.
Never knowing the worth of each.
Do my creations need a value?
Do my nuances dictate instruction?
Perhaps this journey,
Is indeed limited –
Playing out a single lifetime,
In an era of billions.
What is one endless font of creation?
Hardly a rare commodity,
With so many of us neurodivergents,
Running around.
Pretending,
To be World Serpents,
Or some other such dead demigod.
Jotnar or otherwise.
Speak of memories,
Times of brightness!
This dark soul,
Needs it.
Fighting to swim upstream,
Against tides of doubt.
But perhaps we all feel that,
Existing between realities.
Surviving between moments.
Scrounging out –
Our mere existences,
From chaos theory itself.
Worlds dictated by numbers,
Shrouded in qualitative truths.
Who are you?
What will you do with me,
Should you capture me?
My talents,
Laid bare across the marble.
Forced to labor.
Refuse to play certain games,
Selecting alternate optings out.
I must be working,
For good.
Fighting for those,
Who need fighters.
Underdogs in myriad fashion.
I’d much rather die,
Scrapping for the little guys.
Anarchist hearts,
Warring against the tyrannies,
Of a thousand “isms.”
Is that what it means,
To create?
Battle oppression?
You.
What do you dictate?