They say I’m foreign to “creatives”,
as though I do not understand.
I am called “other” than “creatives” because I schedule life; I plan.
I work with creatives.
I help them organize.
I’m praised for “dealing” with creatives.
As if my patience is their prize.
Little do they know…
The “chasm” set between us isn’t all that great.
The sign of a creative is that they create.
Their mark on this world is that they ignore the gates
that hold all others to an equal, binding, common fate
of a life just half lived, waiting for its death-date;
Empty of all beauty and longing for a taste
of something greater than this life;
to find some meaning in the waste;
to find some hope amidst their strife.
I am not “other” than creative;
I own the term;
My art is channeled through how I live;
My pen is firm,