A creator is a person of interest; with works created from the simplest.
A creator is a person of passion; amongst their own fashion.
A creator can merely be like all of us; but can dearly make a difference.
That very creator started with darkness – ungrateful pasts and guests, pushing him to the point of drowning in guilt, minds deteriorating like wilt. A dysfunctional but still functional group of a quiet family.
It began one day. One day that seemed as though an ordinary time turned into a crime.
A woman passed. A smoker once she was; and an ill soul. The time of survival in her whole was brittle, her very breath brutal.
She made The Creator. Molded him, folded him, loaded him to what he became.
The Creator came to her laid amongst her mattress. With the raspiest voice, she said: “Goodbye, I love you”.
The creator didn’t think much – didn’t have so much of a crutch. He said “Goodbye” back, and went on his way.
Only, that was the last he saw her from any forward day. She’s gone; her weakness overcame her – overlasted her in an instantaneous way.
A four legged friend, a small, comic-relief of a creature. Like a kin to The Creator it was; and was by his side, following his tide.
To grieve with as he pleased.
On another fateful day, the four legged friend became ill, its struggle painful. Its mind was splitting apart, deteriorating its consciousness and soul from the inside out – Turning it into a rabid, mindless hull of fur – its eyes blinded, as if it was an act of gouging them out in a way no one else could concur.
All except for one – The Creator. He witnessed the horror, forming a bottomless pit of a borer, imprisoning him in a river of pain, fear, crazed and violent forsaken grief – like a hell on earth.
An animal, as well as a loved one can be special to one, especially you, every person reading the poem.
And once they leave this world forever, your sanity breaks – even more than when a fellow human passes.
Which can create madness – that takes your mind indefinitely.
That hell after miserable nights of insomnia and grief became parasomnia. He dreamt not of the usual “Terrifying” experiences, yet the more silent but horrifying.
Voices, images, faces. Abstract amongst any mortal world – turning a feeble sapien’s conscious burled.
These are The Creator’s demons. Yes – he still fights them. But yet no matter what, no matter how much he struggles, no matter how much he juggles reality, and them, they never truly leave.
They ARE him. They are his guilt. They are his pain. His fears. And they are in his domain.
They try him, they test him, play with him – say he’s an outcast – no one shall care for his pain, taunting his failure. Like a bailor, all The Creator would want was those words to shut the hell up.
But it never comes.
But things that start tragic end with a choragic honor.
The Creator would make a name for himself – one of the best decisions in years that showed any source of gratefulness in his damaged soul.
He BECAME that very creator. And he didn’t regret it.
His reign of self-work was satisfactory – from the very introductory.
Passions, achievements, self-proclaimed retrievements to his very soul.
In the way, there is only one person that guides The Creator out of the pit from whence he was imprisoned after what seems like generations.
The Lord. The true father. The creator of existence.
An artifact left by his mother, in his palms, guides him; sets him on the right tide.
It suppresses the demons he suffers from; nights giving him the capacity to sleep – presenting audacity.
And making people feel entertained along the way.
He found it.
After so long.
After years of wanting knowledge of purpose, multipurpose, and yet feeling like a fish dragged away from its lands, now alien to wherever its journey ended.
He will choose to remain here, doing what he loves, admires, inspires – with new things to try, no longer having the urge to quietly cry.
THIS is where he belongs.
Source: r/Poems · by /u/RaspberryDry9552