where did i go

i didn't know i was creative until i was seventeen

and even then it's not the word i would've used.

as a kid who didn't know what all the overthinkings mean

your sense of self gets senselessly recused.

anyway i'm not here to drum up the past,

i mean i am but not from fourteen years ago.

every sense of self has never been something that lasts.

if i'm afraid to see it-- be it-- show it how is anybody else supposed to know

i used to live on the top floor of a townhouse

and i played my music basically every day.

now i have to fight to find the will to write,

and i go to bed, the music didn't get to play.

i heard creativity is stronger when you live near water

i keep forgetting to double check the data though.

24 each time, like time it gets in line for the slaughter,

dreams, ideas, and plans, and nothing tangible to show

my bedroom used to overlook a little pond.

water out my window while i played piano in the sunglow.

overlooked and unreliable, guess i'm really just a middle-blonde.

the line doesn't fit but i had a rhyme i wanted to show and flow.

rhyming words is easy just like it's always been

but that's not enough to make poetry that breathes

find a word that rhymes with been like begin or thin or spin or chin

and hope you catch the rhythm before it leaves.

i used to hear a train go by the house at night,

i'd pretend it was the elevated rail in New York New York.

since moving home it's been a start-and-stop of muse and light

a jumpy sketch made out of inspiration and creative torque.

i know that i just wrote a poem,

but it wasn't easy and i had to really work.

when the water and the train left i've feared the words went with them,

cause what the hell rhymes with new york