Save the Arts


Creativity, that lively, colorful woman, is dying.
We are slowly smothering her,
her lips turning blue as the cerulean crayon we used to use
to splash oceans or skies on construction paper.
We have become creatures of input rather than output,
we sit in front of screens and use our thumbs more than our minds.
We select entertainment that requires as little effort as possible,
so we can watch or listen with our thoughts stationary,
refusing to be alone with ourselves.
Creativity, she begs for release, for oxygen, life outside of us
however we will give it - on paper, on canvas, typed or belted out,
sewn or built or designed.
At times when we give our minds a moment of nourishment, acknowledge
that we exist, she fiercely paints the space in our head
with a myriad of colors, beautiful prisms of ideas and emotions
begging for attention, begging for us to create because those colors
are genius and capable of change and she knows it, and we know it,
but we are insecure or tired or just too busy.
We wait too long and the colors disappear.
One day when many years have gone and life's colors have turned black
and gray for us, we will try to reacquaint ourselves with Creativity,
desperate for her to tell us, what mark have we made on our world?
But she will be long gone and we will mourn for her
when we look back on our lives and realize there will be no evidence
that we have ever lived, because we have created nothing.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem