When Creative Fires Rise

When Creative Fires Rise

Imagination blooms within our darkest hour,
Like forbidden love or pain, we’re snared within its power.
It speaks to us in whispers, with velvet tongue it lies,
Waiting for the moment our creative fires rise.

We slip away unnoticed, to places we can see,
While loved ones gape and roll their eyes, sighing impatiently.
Once the visions come and go, we look around in shame.
“Please don’t blame me, blame my muse!” we frequently exclaim.

It's the plight of every writer, from near to far.
It strikes us in the bathroom, folding laundry, in the car!
We slip away unbidden, to places we can see,
While loved ones ask “Why can’t you just be normal like me?”

Maybe it’s a short circuit, or fault within our brain.
Perhaps we’re not all here, or certifiably insane.
Me? I think it’s a calling that makes us who we are.
A precious kind of gift, like a shining golden bar.

So don’t let them cut you down, or trim you down to size.
Take pride when people claim you’re strange and swiftly roll their eyes.
For passion burns within our soul, with patience it abides.
Waiting for the moment our creative fires rise.