The Scream by Edvard Munch
What is this need to mimic
Every good song that has ever been sung,
Repeat, every idea
that resonates with you
at any level.
Draw or paint again
What’s been done already
Either at the hand of an artist
Or by God Himself
What is this obsession
With creation
and more so with recreation
But is anything truly original?
Hasn’t it all been done before
By someone more talented and before that
By someone even better?
But it hasn’t been ever done by ‘you’
Is the century-old justification.
This Universe of creativity,
Is nothing but jumbled-up ideas
Rotated again and again
Some more easily recognized
For the mimicry that they are
While others spinned cleverly
To be passed off as unique
A trick of language
Or the impermanence of memory?
What if these thoughts exist alone?
Resurrecting hosts to manifest themselves
No wonder history repeats itself
What is evolution if not an idea
Whispered to a random mass of no importance
Memory, words, concepts
YOU say: Be! And it is
And we remember.
Icklings 