I will, when...
I would, but...
I'd like to, if only...
...but the idea isn't finished yet.
...it needs more polish.
...I'm not really the creative type.
Stop making excuses.
Not money - don't need it.
Not time - there's enough.
Not other people - they're peons.
If you lack anything, it's will.
If you want to,
the world can't stop you.
Most of the time,
it won't even try.
The spewing torrent of idea(l)s
Can never be held in abeyance
By feeble weirs of penury, apathy, satisfaction
Nor a hastily constructed dam of desperate, mediocre normalcy.
The rains don't stop
The rivulets still flow
The torrent never wanes
Though it soon fades into the salient serenity
Of the sea of history
Be it forgotten, or remembered.
Was it all for nothing?
Is that for you to judge?
How many great creators died failures?
Unnoticed while, unlamented after
Entirely misunderstood
(if any attempt was ever made to understand)
Without even the contemptible consolations
Of economics, popularity, celebrity
To soothe overworked imagination
Rewards as fleeting as a green flash at sunset
But not nearly as memorable.
The value of creation lies not in consumption.
That's a lie, propagated by lunatics
Who haplessly chance upon beauty, far beyond their ken,
Then congratulate themselves for gratifying it.
The solipsism of the moneyed is the cynicism of the delayed.
The consumptive is concerned only with salving their disease
And wringing a few more atomic endorphins
Out of something someone else made (or "generated").
Appreciation of the unappreciated
Lies in the fertile valley between
The dry plateaus of time and interest
With the desolation of profitability
Looming somewhere over the horizon, maybe...
But who cares?
Don't plan for a destination
That may not even exist.
Get pissed, persist, enlist what is volunteered
And let your forces sweep the field.
