Creative Responsibility

She’s standing on a wooden peg in the middle of the ocean

I’m sitting in an office writing poetry on my lunch break

She doesn’t know how she got there

I know that it was me

She jolts to life but does it carefully, as one step would be the end

I don’t know where this stuff comes from, it’s haunting

She can smell the salt

I can imagine it

She braces against the wind

The air conditioning kicks on

She screams for help

I think I can hear it

She is crippled by her reality

And I’m left questioning mine

She jumps

And only because I wrote it.
Am I responsible for the things I create?
Are they real?
Can she swim?


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