When creativity creeps up on me.

Today, I had a rather interesting day. By that I mean, not at all. It was hot and I walked to my first class of the year. While walking, I listened to Amanda Palmer singing a Radiohead cover drunk somewhere. I was tired and fantasizing about Scooby Doo mac & cheese and non-existent hot dogs. When I got to my class (30 minutes early, which is surprising, I don't think I was ever even on time in high school) I sat. Just, sat. I didn't really have anything substantial to do, I didn't have a laptop like the girl beside me, and I didn't want to look dumb, so I pulled out a notebook and my ROTC papers (that I already completed) and pretended to look productive.


After about 5 minutes of just looking from the papers to the notebook, trying to appear I was diligently studying the profound formations of words, I decided I should at least pretend to write. The girl beside me was typing, typing, typing. Actually, she was just on facebook stalking some weird guy, insanely common in this day and age, but I imagined her writing a short story about a small homeless boy in Seattle. Anyway, she was using her hands, and I have always been entirely fascinated with hands, fingers, muscles. So I somehow began writing a poem in my Army 101 notebook. What started out pretending I was doing something as to not look awkward and lonely in front of my peers, turned into something I highly enjoy doing. Usually in awkward situations like that I pretend to text, or actually text people who happen to be unable to text back.
This is what my mind gave me:

i extend my hand to Yours,
offering complete protection
from everything my alternative has done.

Your words lighten as
Your hand hesitates.
You want to believe me
but all instinct tells You
i will let Your fingers fall through
when temptation glistens in my irises.

"It's fine." i say,
with my fingertips beginning to numb.

Usually I spend many hours writing and editing my poetry, and this is just a start if I decide to actually finish it. We'll see. I'm not much of a "Yay Poetry!" person. I prefer art and short stories, but I do like the freedom of format. I can honestly say, every halfway decent poem I have written in my life came about while I was doing anything other than sitting at a computer or looking down at my journal. It's an inspiration that hides from me until I'm not looking for it anymore, then ambushes me when I least expect it. Just like that matching sock, only a mutant, carnivorous, terrifying sock, that happens to be extremely beautiful.