The Creative Disorder

It’s the creepy but brilliant lights in your own soul
that make you nauseous. The urge to retch them up
is primal,
yet the need to keep them swallowed is equally vital.

At worst, each is so foreign that lovers will brush it off like cat hair,
and your enemies will dance around its light
with brief remorseless glee.

At best,
it’s the light
that blinds,
and by blinding,
shatters knowing.

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