I once thought I had everything in my hands
Looking at the perfectly carved face in front of me
I thought to myself
I made this
And it is lovely
And then those perfectly chiseled features
Slipped through my hands
Shattering around my feet
While I sunk to my knees
I picked up the shards
Hands shaking
Fingers bleeding
I held the tiny pieces close
Not willing to let them go
I swept them into a tiny box
Lined with silk and down-feathers
Plucked from my own soul
I sealed the lid

No time for tea and sympathy
heading straight for the brink of sixteen
it’s been over a year, suddenly realizing,
since playing at some imagining.

How long it’s been since sticks and arrows
how long since paper planes
how long since flags and carboard houses
how long since spying games.

No time for books arranged in series, for
each year in between, growing up more
suddenly standing at the library door
finding the characters two years younger or more.

**inspired by my imaginings of what life might be like many years after a dystopia (and by watching Independent Lens and POV, and reading The Other Side of the Island too many times). I apologize in advance for any go-green sentiments or other cheesiness... (cringe)**

Why are we creative? Why do we seek to write, sing, and paint? How can we make something from nothing?

(A bit of explanation:
Here are some musings of mine. It started with a "If I could take a bite of the sun, what would it taste like" and went on a rampage from there. Now obviously no one can bite the sun, and supposing they did they would burn their tongues (to say the least). But what does the sun look like it tastes like?
And that’s where this came in.)

I feel the itch.
An idea grows.
My mind alive,
my writing flows.

My pen is swift,
words chosen with care.
It is a gift
I wish I could share.

My sympathies to those
who’ve never tasted the desire
to set hand to page
and light words on fire.