I heard ‘Me’ talking to myself

Of a great yearning for creativity,

Placing much above the self

The worth of true ability.

This great feeling of deep desire

To create or mold and feel,

The ideals that I aspire

To heighten and unconceal.

From the fathoms of my brain

I hear an echo of reproach,

For having wasted and slain

The thoughts that I did coach,

And train for utility.

I feel I must do much

With this possession of sensitivity,

For by itself as such

Will dead be creativity.