On Creation

She sits and the wind whispers

Through the strands of her hair,

Filling her mind with the noises

Of voices that aren't there.


She stands and the rain collects

In the wells of her eyes,

Filling her gaze with the colours

Of a million lies.


She walks and the sun slips

Beneath her tired skin,

Filling her veins with the energy

Of passions within.


She runs and the storms crackle

In her hyperactive brain,

Filling her thoughts with memories

Of the dead and insane.


She stops, and screams,

Wishing it could all end there:

Why have all these thoughts –

So wonderful and terrible –

If there's no-one to care?


She sinks to the ground

With worlds in her head,

Lives at her fingertips

And ideas like lead.


She seeks a release

In the flow of her pen,

In the scratchings on paper,

In her creation den.


All she wants is a reader,

To absorb the worlds she creates;

All she wants is a lover,

To share them with.