Now I realise that the poetry would quite happily write itself,
if only I would open the document,
unveiling the ego with the shattering luminosity of a blank white page.
Now I realise that half the battle is pretending that there is no time for indulgence,
in my thoughts and creativity,
when it is only ample and abundant, waiting to be expressed.
I await the battle cry and feel myself sweat with the shame of an anticipatory release.
But I could never be as great as them,
Surely they were possessed by the creative divinity, that escapes the great multitude.
But what if creativity is simply time?
The desperate and unwavering will to discover what is deeper;
the certain truth that makes you tremble to voice it.
What if that was the only thing that we dared to speak?