Mutating Words

Some things in life I won’t defend.
I am a mutant.
I’ve always been.
Different. Not understanding why.
To learn of others like me is to demystify
How my life has unfolded.

All the voices I heard growing up.
They were put there for one reason.
To make me want it more.
To make me work harder for
The act of creation I continue to explore.

Putting one word in front of another.
Combining elements from another time.
A noun and a verb combined to make a flame.
Creating an explosion we can’t frame.
Burning too fast, too hard to contain.

I am a mutant of my ancestor’s genes.
I was born from salesmen and gamblers.
We come from sawmills and are working class.
My mother a teacher, my father a preacher.
They taught me to keep my mouth shut.

Sit at ones desk and do for others.
Nothing worthwhile comes from the gutter.
Great ideas are ivory tower powered.
Where left brain dominates the right.
Researched and surveyed into a blight.

Not knowing that their limits were a lesson.
To see where they stopped is where I begin.
I will not allow their dreams to be still.
The act of creation moves through free will.
Making collective visions come to fruition.

A shamanic dance happens before our eyes.
As this poem shape shifts from its disguise.
I do not know where it began.
For it created itself as if a spell was read.
The magic it creates is a new world, not the end.

Inspired by Carl King’s book:  So, You’re A Creative Genius, Now What?