creativity comes with obstacles
searching and searching
amongst the billions
of poems and works i've
hyper-analyzed
i've consumed
i've picked apart
i've breathed in and memorized
i can only go in circles
finding myself back to them
how can i create
how can i give the world anything
any part of my being
if it had all already been done
if some other glorious human being
came along first and ripped
my fibers apart
and stretched out my makings
onto paper
onto documents
and fed them back to me
what do i have to offer
how can i never meet them
the souls that knew me so well
they created me
i find that
i would never look in their eyes
had we met face to face
as if i even could
