The world is no place for creatives,
Those who ride their emotions like waves.
One day they may be still, as in all the photographs of ocean sunsets,
But other days, that same horizon is fluidly violent,
Taking shapes only found in nightmares.
These creatives are those who find magic in the frogs,
Who get lost in their melodies as they drift to sleep.
Those who dream dreams while walking
To the grocery store after work,
And while walking, they come across a worm,
Squirming on the sidewalk. But they cannot simply walk past;
Those people empathize with the worm,
For a moment they feel his pain.
For they too have been burned by the sun,
They too have been limited in their mobility,
Forced into channels and canals,
Guided by their own limitations and
Others’ desires for control.
So they remove the worm from the sidewalk,
And return him to the dirt,
Where he peers out from behind blades of grass.