"...the truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, ...a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off... They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating'.-Pearl S. Buck

Saturday, January 22, 2011

time

I watched her
wander, waver
toward me
hunched and huddled
a slow calculated mission
to who knows where
and its sad
but it doesnt matter
to anyone anymore

she smiles
as she passes
mumbles that old h'llo
her perfect teeth glisten
in an odd position
as new meets old
and try to get along

But still she shuffles
gently robust
kicks papers
outta her way
step cane
step cane
step cane
i am mesmerised
as she bobbles
up the street

where you been
lil old lady?
what you seen
beautiful girl?
did someone love you
and caress you
in times gone?
did you marry in tradition?
start to live the dream?
did you birth
a little family
into times of war?
did your lover leave you
buried far away
for freedom
how did you feel?
were you lonely?
doin it on your own?
strugglin to eat
keep on your feet
no one wants a widow

but look at you now
look at you go
so determined
to never let go
nothin
not nothing
will stop you
coz you know
nothin can kill you
but time

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