The Poetic Call of Creativity

When creativity whispers in the dark, A voice both foreign and familiar, I wonder: who am I to answer? Who am I to shape these words into being? The blank page waits, patient as winter, While doubt circles like a restless crow. Perhaps today I'll listen to its cawing— Perhaps tomorrow I'll be brave. But something stirs beneath the hesitation, A current older than my fears, A rhythm beating steady as my pulse: *Write. Create. Speak.* So I gather fragments manifest and attract like magnets Half-formed thoughts and midnight visions, Overheard conversations, remembered dreams And begin to weave them into something new. Some days the words flow like spring melted water, Other days I chisel each syllable from stone. Both are sacred acts of becoming, Both teach me who I am. This is how we've always found our way back— Through stories told around fires, Through songs carried across generations, Through poems that name what we cannot. So when creativity calls, I answer not because I know the way, But because the journey itself