What I Miss
I miss the crisp pop
of a marker cap opening,
the scent of the tangy fumes,
the feeling of the roughly sketched paper
beneath my colorfully stained fingers.
I miss the pounding of my heart
as inspiration squeezes
serotonin through my body,
making my thoughts race
with images configuring in my mind.
I miss the way the pencil
danced with the markers,
as a song looped in my head
on repeat
to the same beat as my heart.
I miss the feeling of freedom.
The feeling of creation being within
the clasp of my palm,
the beat of my heart,
and the pictures in my mind.
Why does adulthood snuff the light
of imaginative bliss,
instead of amplifying it?
of a marker cap opening,
the scent of the tangy fumes,
the feeling of the roughly sketched paper
beneath my colorfully stained fingers.
I miss the pounding of my heart
as inspiration squeezes
serotonin through my body,
making my thoughts race
with images configuring in my mind.
I miss the way the pencil
danced with the markers,
as a song looped in my head
on repeat
to the same beat as my heart.
I miss the feeling of freedom.
The feeling of creation being within
the clasp of my palm,
the beat of my heart,
and the pictures in my mind.
Why does adulthood snuff the light
of imaginative bliss,
instead of amplifying it?
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