The Being of Creativity

it is me and not me its rough wooden handle, dips low, lower, lowest into the cool cool paint slowly it comes out like a lover caressing the others skin, wipes against the clear bottle it touches the paper like a big wet kiss immediately it turns to something new it makes the thoughts into reality on the dead paper the brush is no longer a brush... it is my hand....my extended hand no longer in its inanimate form instead it is a being of innate thoughts and creativity it stops its done it touches its child one more time, just to make sure it is perfect and slowly I lay it down cold and hard again but its ready, its ready to become a being of power again.