An attempt at "Creativity"

"You have a talent," they said.
I stared at their faces
with glassy hard eyes.
No, I don't, I shouted
in my head.
"You really do," they said.
I still yelled back a stern
negation.

I started off with a pen and the back pages
of a classwork notebook
and a bagful of emotions.

I had put down
quite hesitantly
those two letters that made the word
'me'
I still remember them.

My handwriting had been very messy,
but those words were sharp,
precise and collected.
Everything that I wasn't.

And since then
Innumerable small notebooks,
hundreds of crumpled, single-lined paper chits
that found their way to the bottom of my book bag.

And those sentences that I'd read and I felt
were ones to treasure...
I'd kept them all written down.

Now I have no idea where they really are;
I just know that when you give me a pen
I can make the paper bleed.
I can make it dance and
make it weep.

I may never be able to do what
I've written about-
swim in deep water,
fly above the clouds
or get to the center of the earth;
but doesn't it all stand
metaphorically in our lives as we
turn page after page;
adventure, sunshine, rain, bows,
everything would just come tumbling our way
in a continuously random order.

I press a key and It's supposed to get me started.
I can't tho.
Somehow it's alien.
I can't make an LCD screen bleed.
It just wouldn't be sightly.

To be caught dead with fluorescent clothing at midnight in Alaska:
That's just like saying I'm creative.