This is a poem personifying the creative genius inspired by the belief of the ancient Greeks that every artist had a heavenly spirit named ‘genius’, with a fairy godmother complex, who entered your body when you felt inspired and created art.
I don’t know what to name it.
I read somewhere that your creativity is actually a being from the fourth dimension
And everything you make is as a result of its intervention.
I see mine as an angel in a polka dot skirt
Where all the spots are a different shape and colour.
She looks strange but she doesn’t care.
Her septum rings are made of guitar strings
coz she likes the way the words sound together.
She isn’t an angel.
Or a demon
She doesn’t like labels
She enjoys the term monster though
She is trying to reclaim it
She likes spicy drinks, that make her eyes water
She likes to be jolted
Sometimes she stutters.
She washes over me like a wave of angsty adrenaline.
It’s not cute. It’s not even pretty.
But I love it.
She is the rush that keeps me up.
She is my worst addiction.
My 2 am craving.
My beloved, parasitic, friendly neighbourhood hallucinogen.
She is painkillers kicking in after four all-nighters.
She is, being tickled. but quicker faster
So you don’t feel like you are going to explode with laughter.
She is a crazy sugar rush.
Who makes bursting out of your skin seem fun,
Without the part where you crash and burn.
She is high tide all the time.
She is an avalanche of dragonflies.
She is sweet peach air filling me up so I don’t feel hollow.
She is forgetting about tomorrow.
She is Pee Wee’s playhouse on drugs.
She is the inside of kaleidoscopes and bugs.
The eye of a storm
The ringing of a million car horns
She is chaotic and wild and restless and out of control
She is an infinite black hole.
If she was a person she would explode and swallow the world within herself
She is the trauma of a train wreck
And the naïveté of a child.
She is a slut.
She is loose.
She wouldn’t have you think otherwise.
She owns everything and nothing.
And carried nothing and fits everything.
A monster.
I will never really know her.
I shouldn’t even try.
But I just hope she knows
That when she doesn’t show
It’s gets really dark and quiet
And all the sunlight blocking the holes in my soul dissipates
I begin to seep out of myself
It’s slow and laboured
Sticky oily black tar
Oozing uncontrollably .
It pains every bit as much as having her in there did.
Only this time it isn’t fun.
This time is burns.
A cold cloying burn.
An anti climactic burn.
That is so quiet,
You feel weak to admit that you are suffering.
She is a memory who seems like a dream.
But you know what you felt.
When the sun moved inside your body
And burnt you so lovingly
And you wonder if you can feel that again
Without her
If anyone can make you feel like that again
If you can make yourself feel like again.
But your are afraid you won’t .
And then you resign yourself to the reality
that you are slowly driving yourself insae.
I becomes you.
Personal memory becomes generalization.
As you try to scratch her scent off your skin.
Scratch the skin off your flesh.
So you can be vulnerable again.
So that you can feel when she is not there.
That’s when she comes back.
It’s not her fault.
Everyone is more attractive when they push themselves,
Heal themselves.
To reinvent.
People are always more magical when they don’t need you.
Today she stands hesitant I hate every painful second of it.
Every serrated breath that shakily escapes my mouth.
As I await her decision.
One foot in and one foot out.
I want more than anything to find her within.
But I am so close to losing out.
