I am the creator

Over the years as a writer, I had wrote under different pen names. Some, I refuse to take credit for, some, that I had decided to take credit for. It is like having a bunch of children and choosing which kids you want to acknowledge, although you have full knowledge that it is your kid, but in a moment of passion, you did something foolish, and you hated yourself for it.

But eventually, those creations that I did not take credit for will eventually come to haunt me. They creep into my dreams at night, knocking and banging my doors down. They run and tear my clothes off. They want me tell them, I am their creator. I am their mother. Their originator. I am the monster that created these little monsterous beings that have taken a life of their own.

 


They want to be part of me, the originator.


They want to be accepted, belonged, cherished, loved.


They want to be me.


 


My creations cling to my skin like


parasites that feed off my flesh.


 


They scream my name,


as they rip the blue skies apart.


 


They shake the earth,


inducing earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.


 


Take me as your child, they chant together in a strange melody.


No more, no more. I declined.


They whimper and howl as they shred yet another rainbow.


 


One by one, I pushed my children into the abyss.


A blank canvas blanketed the universe in a submerged sphere.


 


The dark skies had no stars.


The plains had no animals.


 


I am drowning, yet breathing.


I am the creator.


No one can tell me otherwise.

 

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