These letters in a row I place
They are no accident, but their reasons
Are ants slipping through cracks
Escaping from the desert sun
This line is only an acquaintance
She knows me better than I know her
She bats her eyelashes from afar
And I may do naught but write her
With every word I scrawl
I am whittled into a new shape
I am a creature of the creation
It has made me more than I have made it
Again, these letters in a row I place
They are no accident, but their reasons
Are ants vanishing through fissures
Hiding from the glowing moon
Author’s Notes:
This poem is definitely on the more self-reflexive, pretentious side, but it feels like a good description of the creative process to me, both in doing this project and in other things like my day job. Obviously, I am the one making the stuff, but it’s not something that I feel like I have much control over, even though from an external perspective I do. When I make something good, I usually feel lucky more than I feel accomplished.
The line about being a “creature of the creation” reminds me of my favorite book, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
Favorite Line(s):
Are ants vanishing through fissures
Hiding from the glowing moon
Least Favorite Line:
She bats her eyelashes from afar