Being both creative and clinically depressed
is like harboring an inward storm,
Violent, sweeping, clearing the shore of debris
at the same time leaving bodies
of sea-mammals on the sand
for the art of it.
It’s salvation and destruction
holding hands inside your chest,
one hand slowly pulling every shred
of individuality out into the air,
while the other tucks it back into your guts.
Some people know their life’s song
From the moment they are born-
They hold certainty in their bones-
But a clinically creative’s
symphony orchestra has too many
crescendos to keep time, or decide
what song it wants to play, as if a single
genre could ever hold their world steady.
Thus, you accept this music for what it is-
winding and erratic,
you take the waves in stride
as they pitch sharp notes, long rests,
a flurry of beats and time changes-
Most of all,
the clinically creative endures exhaustion
of mind and soul, the struggle to create-
the true pulling out of that which inextricably binds us to our humanity-
almost always outweighs the urge to spend
midnight moments in malaise-
I like it, it’s like you’re taking a superposition of the two, to overcome, to burn, for what would be the point if there wasn’t that midnight malaise, if it acts like a bad guy you have yet to find its advantage, this poems deep
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