These "Children" Of Mine

"I must create a system,
or be enslaved by another man's;
I will not reason and compare:
my business is to create."
-Blake

I grasp at it...
This idea that floats shadowy like
through my brain. 

I can feel it.
Almost see it, there waiting to be...

I am it's creator.
Be it Divine spark 
or complex chemical process;
this concept comes 
to life.

Blessed as I am with this gift.
(or cursed)
I am the maker.

I am warrior of paint, wood, clay,
ink and words...
Fighting for the lives of those
hiding in my soul.

They haunt my day.
(and flood my dreams with wants)
"Give us life!", I hear them scream.
From the mundane,
to the complex.
Their wants are here, demanding reality.

In laziness or idleness or simply 
the lack of time.
I have lost a few...
Death comes and takes them.
As surely as she will come someday
for me.

With lesson learned,
now I gather the seeds 
and hold them near my heart.
A quick note, sketch, a few typed words.
Till a time of growth 
and harvest.

These "children" of mine.
My thoughts and wants, made real.
Visible, at last to all 
as I send them out into the universe.
Are at last made safe,
and my soul is at last at ease.

(At least, till the birth of 
yet another.)

In all of this, 
I am the creator.
And about my business,
I must be...