From the lack of inspiration.

Dark in a corner, slowly I melt. Like a candle in a cast-iron stand, melting without fire, flickering without wind. Rust on my nerves and old glory in a caked puddle beneath. There is still life in a remote, desolate corner of the despondent dark.
My smoky imagination crowds to blind the light. After the revelry of light, my end is here. Right here in this darkness. I belong. Yes me.
I have no gender. No form. I'm just an amoeba of thoughts.I'm stripped off every human demarcation. You don't know my colour because it won't shine into the retina of your definitions.I'm undefinable, just like I always wanted to be. With every drop I create a more potential fire. I break to bring together. I dissolve to reappear. I create and then I disappear. Leaving an aroma of mystery behind, trailing to your nostrils and intoxicating your mind.
I detest permanence, stability. I stand naked, the wax of botheration I have shed.
Nude, immune, ever-changing into the dark I delve deeper and deeper. Un-cast.
Waiting for the rust to desert me for the spark of inspiration.
Into rebirth.
I am creativity.