“Write”, said the mother
“Create”, said the tutor
“Produce”, said all the genii.
You are full of potential.
You need to justify your existence.
You have to leave your mark on the sands of time.
The casualty was pushed against the wall
He did not have a choice -
The choice to think, create and outpour.
Like an automaton, he reached for the implements—
For the paper and the pen
For the chisel and the hammer
For the canvas and the riot of colours
To give form to his thoughts – or so he thought.
When he sat down to act, he was frozen, cold and solid.
The poet, the sculptor and the painter in him
Was dead.
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