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A Writer's Creed
Creativity spawns from the half-blood prince as he ponders on his half-led existence
Only half seen, only half blind
Creativity spawns from myself, a being who leads a half existence unbeknownst to some
so known to others
Such young, pale cheeks lightly brushed with ballerina-slipper pink paint
A porcelain doll with a crack right on her face, I trace it with my fingertip
So old. a soul half broken wandering through the pores of this porcelain body
Seeping through a kidney, searching for its missing partner.
A soul millions of years old that does not know it.
A soul that wanders through this world who shook Jesus’ dark, calloused hands
looked him in the eye
and told him of Lucy’s true nickname
a soul that has insight into the corruption of the present day, yet lives in its own withering atmosphere
A soul that wanders and searches and peels and contains.
And knows of many times a heart’s pain.
A soul with so much ability, a soul that cannot accomplish anything at all.
Dark, humid crumbling ground under the pristine, ivory feet of a half-blood prince
Bowed down to, pushed aside
The middle ground is where we belong, the half-blood prince and I
Lucid from the amount of kisses we have both received Terrified by yet another strike across our cheeks
We are Scarface with a pristine, iridescent complexion
We are Marilyn Monroe without sex being drawn out from her cherries and snow lips onto us mere mortal’s dry, chapped mouths
Mouths without lips.
Souls that lack essence
We are a country that stemmed from Puritans and witch hunts,
We are now a nation that is being hunted
Haunted by irrelevant information
Haunted by ourselves
We run towards a bombastic, billowing time machine
Lucy, save us.
Lucy thumps through the withering weeds of a parallel universe
so far, far, far
Her hunt for blood has prevailed
She seeps her thirsty fangs into fresh, living meat
Billions of hours away, in the same fields of Ethiopia, another kind of beast is readily sinking its teeth into another weak, helpless creature
The young antelope manages to break free,
her spinal cord exposed through the pools of crimson
Yet, clutching to his hunting case,
A poacher picks the antelope up and shoves her back into her caste.
Push the waves of crimson blood aside,
Find our world’s true belief
A writer’s creed is far more complex:
we are armed with not only a whip for self-flagellation,
but an eternal ring in each of our ears, a constant pounding in our blood,
a small beam of light that will forever extend from our brain cells towards our hands
hands that can ameliorate, ruin, or create.
We possess a certain abnormality, as do all artists, that propel us
push us to be braver than any living being,
as we cowardly hide behind our canvas, book, or song.
A miniscule arachnid will forever be crawling through our cerebral cortex
waking us up at night, pounding on hidden doors when we least expect it.
A writer’s task is never complete;
we will never cease to criticize all that is good and celebrate all that is evil
we take an oath to never halt our constant critique on mankind
we swear to never kill the black widow trapped inside our minds.