I wish to look at the clouds and come up with funny names, looking at their shape and seeing some form of animal. 

I wish I could walk into the dense forests, my feet bare, able to feel the wet grass and smell the musk flowers 

Looking at even a blank page and imagining a hidden story to life 

Where even a small walk can change my course of action and make my fingers run across the typewriter or keyboard

What if I could put my thoughts into words or splash them with colors 

Coming up with funny scenes or able to depict what I feel into Shakespeare, Keats or R. Frost 

Maybe I could sing the dormant volacanoes awake like Neruda 

Alas, all I’m left with are hopes and dreams 

Turning the wheels of reality into failed projects and old blueprints 

Unfortunately, creativity is still fast asleep. 


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