My creativity
is like a whack-a-mole:
when my demons scare it away,
it always pops up somewhere else,
somewhere unexpected.
When the hammer of judgment comes down,
it runs,
then reappears
somewhere I’m not looking.
It’s playful and cunning,
like the Looney Tunes roadrunner–
the coyote
will never catch it.
It’s opportunistic,
like a weed
that grows through the cracks
in the pavement.
It’s resilient,
like Fawkes the Phoenix–
every death
leads to a rebirth.
It must reinvent itself
a million times over,
but it never gives up,

and I’m so grateful
it doesn’t.