Death is always near.
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,
Sterling silver, once around my neck
lies coiled on the tile
in a serpent arabesque;
double-crossing the cross along its chain,
reminding me again
of the paradox of things,
which are seldom what they seem.
When, at times, words run dry
and actions spill their hollow contents on the floor;
when, at times, you feign a smile
and leave bloody handprints on the door;
words may come and words will go
and someday we might find
that these words we needed most
are the same we left behind.
You’re out of sight
and out of mind,
but only on the surface.
Sight is gone
but thoughts go on,
and thoughts are ever restless.
So, out of sight
and out of eye;
but never out of mind.
You always leave a residue;
a reminder of some kind.
We all just want to be seen.
I want to be proud of my story;
I want to look at the horrible things that have happened,
And even those things I want to love.
It’s the tales with the most traumatic of scenes
That become most beloved of our history.
Because they mean something.