Creation is unstable, a question in the dark
What am I supposed to say?
With hands that lack talent
With a mind with too many possibilities;

Stop. Think.
I can't- choose.
We can't see what we believe,
Creating the world into a gruesome scene from Grimm's fairytales
Barrels of nails..

Rolling down a hill of lies.
But of knowledge, gaining some presence for myself
I can choose. Now. Again. Later.
Destruction is an inevitable piece of news
Preparation incomplete, unsure wariness dragging me under

Can't you hear the rolling thunder?
Feel the earth shift
Feel the heat bloom beneathe your feet as your exhale turns white
The world's challenges changed to unbearable hot coals

But I can face this.
This, this I can handle.
Creation is no longer a question
A light, a brightness illuminated by a predictable end
Taken by hands that we control
Depressed imaginations
But with talent to rock the world to its foundations.