The Riot

​I haven’t felt very creative lately. Mostly this is because I haven’t had any time to be creative because creativity only comes in blank spaces. In the time between. In the moments when you’re not concentrating on living or working and instead have time to be inspired by something infinite and profound.

I want to share a poem that I wrote not too long ago - my first poem in probably two years. It was late at night and I was laying alone on my cushy, king-sized mattress under white sheets flecked with cat fur. My ceiling fan was circling round and round while the hot summer air beat against the window. My husband was upstairs watching TV and my kitties were dozing at the foot of the bed.

And I was experiencing mast cell disease in all its glory.

I had a sudden feeling that I could find the words to capture the essence of my experience that night. This is usually how my poems come anyway - suddenly and urgently. So here it is.

The Riot
 
Flushing skin. A tinge at the 
ears on my
pale, olive complexion. 
Radiating invisibly, like the rays of
the sun.
Cells rioting. Releasing. Damaging. 
Cloaked in an outer shell. 

But you look fine,
They say. 

by Elizabeth C. Haynes