Creativity

It is an irksome and peculiar thing, Sometimes you will possess it in leaps and bounds, Other times you feel dry, with as much imagination As a scroll of archaic and scratchy parchment. Even in my height of creativity, the very peak, I still do not believe it is enough. I started to write a novel once, Yet struggled to make it remotely readable. So I tuned my pen to poetry. But it can take days for a new idea to spring, Whilst I sit there, writing poems about not being able to write poems. Money making schemes are an interesting measure of one's creativity. And sat in my call centre, scraping enough for a student to get by, Where the blips and the bleeps and those answer phone creeps Will never be enough to let creativity fly. Food is a reflection of creativity. There is surely nothing better than roasted pheasant and wild mushrooms With spicy Mediterranean rice, plumped with raisons and apricots. However, I am no cook! An excess of stodgy, white rice, a splattering of curry sauce (With maybe a banana for afters) is all I could ever conjure up. I wish I could experiment with my look. Create an air of heightened sophistication. Wear a trilby or a bowler hat, Spend hours pouring over thousands of neckties, Yet I always plummet down to t-shirt and jeans. You hear these people with such flamboyant curses; Rolling their R's and perfecting their P's To convey their anger truly. I, however will sit with the masses, Using crude and repulsive language, now just a colloquialism. Although the feeling rarely occurs, A stroke of splendid genius will strike It will burst down my spine like a jolt of electricity (Although I imagine it to be a royal purple, Mingled with a perfectly golden dust) I commit to paper and it will forever be mine.