The Creative Genius - Poem

Maybe we killed the creative genius.

The one who is supposed to speak for all of us.

The voice of the people.

The author who walked among us.

The singer who sounded like us.

The smart person, who was somehow still for us.

We did not kill this person through a coup of betrayal and power.

Or in some elaborate assassination attempt with madness and violence.

We grew.

We got better and more complex.

And as the industrial complex grew, so too did the need for material.

We created a machine, and we needed a way to feed it.

So we go rid of the individual, and made them become a part of this machine.

Making the need for their broad knowledge unnecessary.

If you are intelligent, you must understand that you are only in one field.

Gone are the days for a scientist to be in multiple fields.

An author must only write for that one genre.

A singer must write that one song type.

For if they don’t, they will die.

The very machine we built to survive will destroy those that we love.

Maybe we killed the creative genius.

Maybe….

Or maybe it was all an illusion…

Maybe the idea of one person being brilliant and speaking for the masses is a flat-out lie.

No better than when you were told that friends go over each other’s houses in the morning to have breakfast before work.

Nobody ever takes time out of their day, before breakfast, before changing, before everything, to have a full-blown conversation at 7:30 in the morning.

Nobody does that.

Maybe we didn’t kill the creative genius, because he never even existed at all.

John and Paul got help from the other members of the band, and other musicians they worked with in studio.

Shakespeare collaborated more with others than he would ever really admit.

Even Homer was more of a collection of stories, more than one single person.

They never spoke for the masses.

They never did anything by themselves.

They were a collection of talent that, somewhere along the line, we gave one person all the credit for the greatness we witnessed.

One person…

That is what we want.

We want to believe that there is one person out there smart enough to be with us, and yet also somehow smart enough to be insightful in their take on life so that they can speak for all of us.

For they are our soul.

They walked the same path we have, and yet know more of it.

They saw the same life we did, and yet saw more of it.

They read the same books we read, and yet wrote more of them.

We want that person to be here, walking among the crowd, for without them, we are not sure of the very soul we have.

Sure, we can say that there are groups of people who are talented and give us great art….

But do we really want that?

Or do we want the artist to represent who we are?

They wrote of our struggles.

They wrote of our pain.

They are us.

Through them, we are held a mirror, and we don’t always like what we see.

But when they are done holding up the mirror, we thank them, for without that moment of clarity, what are we but liars?

Not to anything but ourselves.

We can’t know who we really are without someone daring us to see the wrong in us.

“Go ahead and look at what we are. What you are. What we all are.”

The artist says as they hold that mirror.

And with that reflection, we appreciate the artist, for they have the same wounds.

“Look at my face. Look at my skin. Look at me.

I share the same cuts and bruises you do!

My face is wrinkled and old.

My skin bleeding.

I am ugly and yet I am beautiful for knowing it.

Look at me.

Look at you.

As we look at each other.”

The artist gives us hope we can overcome the bad in us.

They walked that road we did, and yet somehow made art none of us could.

As the road took our spirit, our heart, and our mentality, it was the artist who somehow rose above it.

The road crushed us, but it only inspired the artist.

They are our soul, our direction.

The one we go to for words on what to say, or thoughts to think.

Without them….

What do we have?

Maybe that is why we all feel so empty and lonely.

Maybe that is why you hear so much about depression and despair in people.

Maybe that is why we hate ourselves the way we do.

We are listening to the words of many who should speak to the one.

The group may be able to create the technically sound and refined art, but they can never create the pure emotion or feel that one does when they are alone in their creation.

So what do we want?

Do we want groups of people to speak for us, as they prop one of themselves up for all of us to know and adore, or do we want one individual to speak for us, transcribing their troubles for us all?

We have already made the decision, it seems.

Did we kill the creative genius, or did he never even exist at all?