Crow and Flame

There were years I did not write poetry.

Years I did not draw.

Did not paint.

Did not let color spill from my hands or words rise from my chest.

I went to work.

I came home.

I took care of everyone else.

I told myself that was enough.

I didn’t realize I was stifled.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

But slowly. Quietly.

Like a flame pressed under glass — still burning, but starving for air.

I allowed myself to believe what I had been told by voices that benefited from my shrinking.

That art was for other people.

That writing was indulgent.

That creativity was frivolous.

A waste.

Not practical.

Not productive.

Not necessary.

So I folded that part of myself small.

Tucked her away.

Labeled her “later.”

But “later” kept not coming.

What I didn’t understand then is that creativity is not a hobby for me.

It is oxygen.

It is nervous system regulation.

It is prayer.

It is how I metabolize grief and joy and rage and hope.

When I stopped creating, I didn’t become more responsible.

I became more brittle.

More exhausted.

More disconnected from my own voice.

The world will always have opinions about what is useful.

It will praise what is measurable.

It will reward what is controllable.

Art is neither.

Art is rebellion.

It is sovereignty.

It is saying: I exist beyond my productivity.

When I picked up a pen again, my hands trembled.

When I touched paint again, I felt grief for the years I’d abandoned her.

But the flame was still there.

Not loud.

Not raging.

Just waiting.

If you have been told your creativity is frivolous…

If you have been convinced it is selfish…

If you have packed it away to be the reliable one, the responsible one, the strong one—

I see you.

The crow knows what it is to survive.

The flame knows what it is to burn anyway.

You are allowed to create.

You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to make something beautiful even if no one else understands it.

It is not a waste.

It is your return.