Creative is my profession
Poems teased from loveseat of my sabbatical (part 1?)
Two weeks into Fucking Off (re: sabbatical) and I can feel creativity and magic steep back into my bones like a bag of earl gray in boiling water (to be clear: my insides do feel nuclear and they’ve spent some afternoons screaming much at the same pitch as a teapot). Enjoy some poems conceived in the golden patch of sunlight that hits my loveseat every afternoon.
~ H
A Mani-Gen Manifesto
The price of a creative
(Intentionally designed) life
Is to outgrow a million things.
My sanity woven into a farewell.
My security baked into the nothingness
Before the next hello.
To Whom It May Concern
I tried to be valuable
Without knowing what it meant.
What was I trying to be
That I wasn’t already?
Me, The Lion
Trying to convince myself
That I am allowed
Help, support & grace,
Is like cuddling a lion
And hoping it’ll let me live.
Creative Meat Sweats
I often shake my fists at the Universe.
Five, whole rounds needed
To air every grievance.
Are you listening?
Answer my call,
Feel this energy,
Feed this vision,
Guide this body.
We used to work together
Like a burger and beer,
But now I have the meat sweats
And you refuse to wash it down.
I labor through it all.
Maybe you should stop, she says.
Could you dare let me labor for you?
I put down my fists
And chug.
Good Giving Up
I give up.
Whoever taught me critical thinking—
Plan, strategize, prepare, pursue—
Turned my most valuable resource against me.
And I ate up those pressure-soaked vibrations
Because I was starved for wisdom.
The only way to fail is to give up, they said.
So I never let go.
Insides Out
Freedom is the moment you realize,
That creativity was never an act
Of figuring out.
But rather,
The experience of being figured out.
Cheeky Intuition
Never a nail biter,
Always a cheek chewer.
Something heady for my subconscious
About a smooth patch of fresh skin.
Hours of unconscious gnawing,
Toiling over calls-to-action, deadlines,
Graphics, and sales plans.
The tang of first blood snapping me back to reality.
Where did I just go?
I wasn’t here,
That I’m sure.
Might my intuition
Be trying to speak?
Might I be so stubborn
That she’s left to chew her way out?
Winks
Maybe richness isn’t just
Love and money.
But the boxes of synchronicities
Stacked in all the extra closets of our home.
Maybe richness is devotion to foolish wonder
Instead of a slow death by the hand
Of mediocre meaninglessness.
Are you the richest person you know, too?
Macrame
What do I create
When it’s not obvious?
When my stomach isn’t churning to
Write me!
Poke me!
Prod me!
Color me!
Paint me!
Ponder me!
Collage me!
Scribble me!
Question me!
What do I create
When it’s not falling out?
I suppose I’ll try to macrame
A perfect moment in the void.
INCASE YOU MISSED IT:
Images:
Insides Out is my fav!!
"The experience of being figured out"💜