Death without Creation.
“Feed me!” I cry.
Put all the letters from the blocks
into a sack and shake them up and draw
one at a time to make a word.
Get alphabets and dictionaries,
make them sing like wild canaries.
Then challenge me to guess the game
or solve the riddle.
“Feed me!” Make me think, create, learn,
and put those thoughts, creations and jumbles
in a hat and shake them up and dump them tumbling,
mixing, into something I can write.
I’m hungry for the sensation that creating brings.
It is candy to a starving child,
musical notes to a pianist
fret boards to a guitarist.
Words. The grain of creation.
The manna of my salvation.
Challenge me with syllables and phrases.
Stuff me with words and fables,
blurs of ink on yellow pages,
chocolate letters, sugar cubes.
If I can’t write the words you choose
I’ll slowly die. Starved of inspiration,
withering to a blithering idiot,
a death without creation.
